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A 


WILLIAM   MARSTON. 


MAEY   MAESTOK 


A   NOVEL 


A 


BY 

GEOKGE    MACDONALD, 

AUTHOR    OF    "ANNALS    OF    A    QTTIET    NEIGHBORHOOD,"    41  ROBERT    FALCONER,"    ETC.,   ETC. 


NEW  YORK : 

GEORGE    ROUTLEDGE    &    SONS, 

9  LAFAYETTE  PLACE. 


CONTENTS 


i. 

ii. 

in. 

IV. 

v. 

VI.- 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII.- 

XIII.- 

XIV.- 

XV.- 

XVI.- 

XVII.- 

XVIIL- 

XIX.- 

XX.- 

XXI. 

XXII.- 

XXIII.- 

XXIV.- 

XXV.- 

3 

XXVI.- 

o 

XXVII.- 

in 

XXVIII.- 

XXIX.- 

cr 

XXX.- 

— 

XXXI.- 

€ 


-The  Shop 

-Customers 

-The  Arbor  at  TnoRNwicK. 

-Godfrey  W ardour 

-Godfrey  and  Letty 

-Tom  Helmer 

-DuRNMELLING 

-The  Oak 
-Confusion     . 
-The  Heath  and  the  Hut 
-"William  Maeston    . 
-Mary's  Dream    . 
-The  Human  Sacrifice 
-Ungenerous  Benevolence 
-The  Moonlight 
-The  Morning 
-The  Result  . 
-Mary  and  Godfrey 
-Mary  in  the  Shop  . 
-The  Wedding-dress 
-Mr.  Redmain 
-Mrs.  Redmain     . 
-The  Menial  . 
-Mrs.  Redmain's  Drawing-room 
-Mary's  Reception    . 
-Her  Position 
-Mr.  and  Mrs.  Helmer 
-Mary  and  Letty 
-The  Evening  Star  . 
-A  Scolding 
-Sepia  . 
M 


5 

14 

23 

35 

39 

50 

52 

63 

70 

77 

93 

104 

109 

125 

130 

137 

147 

153 

159 

168 

179 

185 

189 

201 

211 

221 

229 

238 

245 

253 

257 


4: 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

XXXII.— Honor  . 
XXXIII.— The  Invitation    . 
XXXIV.— A  Stray  Sound 
XXXV.— The  Musician 
XXXVI.— A  Change 
XXXVII. — Lydgate  Street  . 
XXXVIII. — Godfrey  and  Letty  . 
XXXIX.— Belief 

XL. — Godfrey  and  Sepia   . 
XLI. — The  Helper 
XLII. — The  Leper 
XLIII. — Mary  and  Mr.  Eedmain 
XLIV. — Joseph  Jasper 
XLV. — The  Sapphire 
XL  VI. — Reparation 
XLVII. — Another  Change 
XLVIII. — Dissolution 
XLIX. — Thornwiok 

L. — William  and  Mary  Marston 
LI.— A  Hard  Task 
LII. — A  Summons      .'■.'. 
LIII. — A  Friend  in  Need 
LIV. — The  Next  Night 
LV. — Disappearance 
LVI. — A  Catastrophe 
LVII. — The  End  of  the  Beginning 


PAGE 

264 
271 

278 
283 
290 
294 
299 
305 
308 
315 
323 
326 
344 
357 
306 
370 
376 
382 
395 
401 
409 
425 
429 
448 
453 
458 


MABY  MARSTON. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   SHOP. 

It  was  an  evening  early  in  May.  The  sun  was  low,  and  the 
street  was  mottled  with  the  shadows  of  its  paving-stones— 
smooth  enough,  but  far  from  evenly  set.  The  sky  was  clear, 
except  for  a  few  clouds  in  the  west,  hardly  visible  in  the  daz- 
zle of  the  huge  light,  which  lay  among  them  like  a  liquid  that 
had  broken  its  vessel,  and  was  pouring  over  the  fragments. 
The  street  was  almost  empty,  and  the  air  was  chill.  The 
spring  was  busy,  and  the  summer  was  at  hand ;  but  the  wind 
was  blowing  from  the  north. 

The  street  was  not  a  common  one  ;  there  was  interest,  that 
is  feature,  in  the  shadowy  front  of  almost  each  of  its  old 
houses.  Not  a  few  of  them  wore,  indeed,  something  like  a 
human  expression,  the  look  of  having  both  known  and  suf- 
fered. From  many  a  porch,  and  many  a  latticed  oriel,  a  long 
shadow  stretched  eastward,  like  a  death-flag  streaming  in  a 
wind  unfelt  of  the  body — or  a  fluttering  leaf,  ready  to  yield, 
and  flit  away,  and  add  one  more  to  the  mound  of  blackness 
gathering  on  the  horizon's  edge.  It  was  the  main  street  of  an 
old  country  town,  dwindled  by  the  rise  of  larger  and  more 
prosperous  places,  but  holding  and  exercising  a  charm  none  of 
them  would  ever  gain. 

Some  of  the  oldest  of  its  houses,  most  of  them  with  more 
than  one  projecting  story,  stood  about  the  middle  of  the  street. 


6  MART  MARS T OK 

The  central  and  oldest  of  these  was  a  draper's  shop.  The  win- 
dows of  the  ground-floor  encroached  a  little  on  the  pavement, 
to  which  they  descended  very  close,  for  the  floor  of  the  shop 
was  lower  than  the  street.  But,  although  they  had  glass  on 
three  oriel  sides,  they  were  little  used  for  the  advertising  of  the 
stores  within.  A  few  ribbons  and  gay  handkerchiefs,  mostly 
of  cotton,  for  the  eyes  of  the  country  people  on  market-days, 
formed  the  chief  part  of  their  humble  show.  The  door  was 
wide  and  very  low,  the  upper  half  of  it  of  glass — old,  and  bot- 
tle-colored ;  and  its  threshold  was  a  deep  step  down  into  the 
shop.  As  a  place  for  purchases  it  might  not  to  some  eyes  look 
promising,  but  both  the  ladies  and  the  housekeepers  of  Test- 
bridge  knew  that  rarely  could,  they  do  better  in  London  itself 
than  at  the  shop  of  Turnbull  and  Marston,  whether  variety, 
quality,  or  price,  was  the  point  in  consideration.  And,  what- 
ever the  first  impression  concerning  it,  the  moment  the  eyes  of 
a  stranger  began  to  grow  accustomed  to  its  gloom,  the  evident 
size  and  plenitude  of  the  shop  might  well  suggest  a  large  hope. 
It  was  low,  indeed,  and  the  walls  could  therefore  accommodate 
few  shelves  ;  but  the  ceiling  was  therefore  so  near  as  to  be  itself 
available  for  stowage  by  means  of  well-contrived  slides  and 
shelves  attached  to  the  great  beams  crossing  it  in  several  direc- 
tions. During  the  shop-day,  many  an  article,  light  as  lace, 
and  heavy  as  broadcloth,  was  taken  from  overhead  to  lay  upon 
the  counter.  The  shop  had  a  special  reputation  for  all  kinds 
of  linen  goods,  from  cambric  handkerchiefs  to  towels,  and  from 
table-napkins  to  sheets  ;  but  almost  everything  was  to  be  found 
in  it,  from  Manchester  moleskins  for  the  navvy's  trousers,  to 
Genoa  velvet  for  the  dowager's  gown,  and  from  Horrocks's  prints 
to  Lyons  silks.  It  had  been  enlarged  at  the  back,  by  building 
beyond  the  original  plan,  and  that  part  of  it  was  a  little  higher, 
and  a  little  better  lighted  than  the  front ;  but  the  whole  place 
was  still  dark  enough  to  have  awaked  the  envy  of  any  swin- 
dling London  shopkeeper.  Its  owners,  however,  had  so  long 
enjoyed  the  confidence  of  the  neighborhood,  that  faith  readily 
took  the  place  of  sight  with  their  customers — so  far  at  least  as 
quality  was  concerned ;  and  seldom,  except  in  a  question  of 
color  or  shade,  was  an  article  carried  to  the  door  to  be  con- 


THE  SHOP.  7 

I 

fronted  with  the  day.     It  had  been  just  such  a  shop,  untouched 

of  even  legendary  change,  as  far  back  as  the  memory  of  the 
sexton  reached  ;  and  he,  because  of  his  age  and  his  occupation, 
was  the  chief  authority  in  the  local  history  of  the  place. 

As,  on  this  evening,  there  were  few  people  in  the  street, 
so  were  there  few  in  the  shop,  and  it  was  on  the  point  of  being 
closed  :  they  were  not  particular  there  to  a  good  many  minutes 
either  way.  Behind  the  counter,  on  the  left  hand,  stood  a 
youth  of  about  twenty,  young  George  Turnbull,  the  son  of  the 
principal  partner,  occupied  in  leisurely  folding  and  putting 
aside  a  number  of  things  he  had  been  showing  to  a  farmer's 
wife,  who  was  just  gone.  He  was  an  ordinary-looking  lad, 
with  little  more  than  business  in  his  high  forehead,  fresh- 
colored,  good-humored,  self-satisfied  cheeks,  and  keen  hazel 
eyes.  These  last  kept  wandering  from  his  not  very  pressing 
occupation  to  the  other  side  of  the  shop,  where  stood,  behind 
the  opposing  counter,  a  young  woman,  in  attendance  upon  the 
wants  of  a  well-dressed  youth  in  front  of  it,  who  had  just  made 
choice  of  a  pair  of  driving-gloves.  His  air  and  carriage  were 
conventionally  those  of  a  gentleman — a  gentleman,  however, 
more  than  ordinarily  desirous  of  pleasing  a  young  woman 
behind  a  counter.  She  answered  him  with  politeness,  and 
even  friendliness,  nor  seemed  aware  of  anything  unusual  in  his 
attentions. 

"They're  splendid  gloves,"  he  said,  making  talk;  "but 
don't  you  think  it  a  great  price  for  a  pair  of  gloves,  Miss 
Marston  ?  " 

"It  is  a  good  deal  of  money,"  she  answered,  in  a  sweet, 
quiet  voice,  whose  very  tone  suggested  simplicity  and  straight- 
forwardness ;  "but  they  will  last  you  a  long  time.  Just  look 
at  the  work,  Mr.  Helmer.  You  see  how  they  are  made  ?  It 
is  much  more  difficult  to  stitch  them  like  that,  one  edge  over 
the  other,  than  to  sew  the  two  edges  together,  as  they  do  with 
ladies'  gloves.  But  I'll  just  ask  my  father  whether  he  marked 
them  himself." 

"He  did  mark  those,  I  know,"  said  young  Turnbull,  who 
had  been  listening  to  all  that  went  on,  "for  I  heard  my  father 
say  they  ought  to  be  sixpence  more." 


8  MARY  MARSTON. 

"Ah,  then  ! "  she  returned,  assentingly,  and  laid  the  gloves 
on  the  box  before  her,  the  question  settled. 

Helmer  took  them,  and  began  to  put  them  on. 

"  They  certainly  are  the  only  glove  where  there  is  much 
handling  of  reins,"  he  said. 

"  That  is  what  Mr.  Wardour  says  of  them,"  rejoined  Miss 
Marston. 

"By  the  by,"  said  Helmer,  lowering  his  voice,  "when  did 
you  see  anybody  from  Thornwick  ?  " 

"Their  old  man  was  in  the  town  yesterday  with  the  dog- 
cart. 

"Nobody  with  him  ?" 

"  Miss  Letty.     She  came  in  for  just  two  minutes  or  so." 

"  How  was  she  looking  ?" 

"Very  well,"  answered  Miss  Marston,  with  what  to  Helmer 
seemed  indifference. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  with  a  look  of  knowingness,  "you  girls 
don't  see  each  other  with  the  same  eyes  as  we.  I  grant  Letty 
is  not  very  tall,  and  I  grant  she  has  not  much  of  a  complexion  ; 
but  where  did  you  ever  see  such  eyes  ?  " 

"You  must  excuse  me,  Mr.  Helmer,"  returned  Mary,  with 
a  smile,"  if  I  don't  choose  to  discuss  Letty's  merits  with  you  ; 
she  is  my  friend." 

"Where  would  be  the  harm?"  rejoined  Helmer,  looking 
puzzled.  "  I  am  not  likely  to  say  anything  against  her.  You 
know  perfectly  well  I  admire  her  beyond  any  woman  in  the 
world.     I  don't  care  who  knows  it." 

"Your  mother  ?"  suggested  Mary,  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
makes  a  venture. . 

"Ah,  come  now,  Miss  Marston!  Don't  you  turn  my 
mother  loose  upon  me.  I  shall  be  of  age  in  a  few  months, 
and  then  my  mother  may — think  as  she  pleases.  I  know,  of 
course,  with  her  notions,  she  would  never  consent  to  my  mak- 
ing love  to  Letty — " 

"I  should  think  not!"  exclaimed  Mary.  "Who  ever 
thought  of  such  an  absurdity  ?  Not  you,  surely,  Mr.  Helmer  ? 
What  would  your  mother  say  to  hear  you  ?  I  mention  her  in 
earnest  now." 


TEE  SEOP.  9 

"  Let  mothers  mind  their  own  business  ! "  retorted  the 
youth  angrily.  "I  shall  mind  mine.  My  mother  ought  to 
know  that  by  this  time. " 

Mary  said  no  more.  She  knew  Mrs.  Helmer  was  not  a 
mother  to  deserve  her  boy's  confidence,  any  more  than  to  gain 
it ;  for  she  treated  him  as  if  she  had  made  him,  and  was  not 
satisfied  with  her  work. 

"When  are  you  going  to  see  Letty,  Miss  Marston?"  re- 
sumed Helmer,  after  a  brief  pause  of  angry  feeling. 

"Next  Sunday  evening  probably." 

"Take  me  with  you." 

"Take  you  with  me!  What  are  you  dreaming  of,  Mr. 
Helmer?" 

"I  would  give  my  bay  mare  for  a  good  talk  with  Letty 
Lovel,"  he  returned. 

Mary  made  no  reply. 

"You  won't  ?"  he  said  petulantly,  after  a  vain  pause  of 
expectation. 

"Won't  what  ?"  rejoined  Miss  Marston,  as  if  she  could  not 
believe  him  in  earnest. 

"  Take  me  with  you  on  Sunday  ?" 

"No,"  she  answered  quietly,  but  with  sober  decision. 

"Where  would  be  the  harm ?  "  pleaded  the  youth,  in  a  tone 
mingled  of  expostulation,  entreaty,  and  mortification. 

"  One  is  not  bound  to  do  everything  there  would  be  no 
harm  in  doing,"  answered  Miss  Marston.  "Besides,  Mr.  Hel- 
mer, I  don't  choose  to  go  out  walking  with  you  of  a  Sunday 
evening." 

"Why  not?" 

"For  one  thing,  your  mother  would  not  like  it.  You 
know  she  would  not." 

"Never  mind  my  mother.  She's  nothing  to  you.  She 
can't  bite  you. — Ask  the  dentist.  Come,  come  !  that's  all 
nonsense.  I  shall  be  at  the  stile  beyond  the  turnpike-gate  all 
the  afternoon — waiting  till  you  come." 

"  The  moment  I  see  you — anywhere  upon  the  road — that 
moment  I  shall  turn  back. — Do  you  think,"  she  added  with 
half -amused  indignation,  "  I  would  put  up  with  having  all  the 


10  MARY  MARSTOK 

gossips  of  Testbridge  talk  of  my  going  out  on  a  Sunday  evening 
with  a  boy  like  you  ?  " 

Tom  Helmer's  face  flushed.  He  caught  up  the  gloves, 
threw  the  price  of  them  on  the  counter,  and  walked  from  the 
shop,  without  even  a  good  night. 

"  Hullo  ! "  cried  George  Turnbull,  vaulting  over  the  count- 
er, and  taking  the  place  Helmer  had  just  left  opposite  Mary  ; 
"what  did  you  say  to  the  fellow  to  send  him  off  like  that  ? 
If  you  do  hate  the  business,  you  needn't  scare  the  customers, 
Mary." 

"I  don't  hate  the  business,  you  know  quite  well,  George. 
And  if  I  did  scare  a  customer,"  she  added,  laughing,  as  she 
dropped  the  money  in  the  till,  "it  was  not  before  he  had  done 
buying." 

"That  may  be  ;  but  we  must  look  to  to-morrow  as  well  as 
to-day.  When  is  Mr.  Helmer  likely  to  come  near  us  again, 
after  such  a  wipe  as  you  must  have  given  him  to  make  him  go 
off  like  that?" 

"Just  to-morrow,  George,  I  fancy,"  answered  Mary.  "He 
won't  be  able  to  bear  the  thought  of  having  left  a  bad  impres- 
sion on  me,  and  so  he'll  come  again  to  remove  it.  After  all, 
there's  something  about  him  I  can't  help  liking.  I  said  no- 
thing that  ought  to  have  put  him  out  of  temper  like  that, 
though  ;  I  only  called  him  a  boy." 

"Let  me  tell  you,  Mary,  you  could  not  have  called  him  a 
worse  name." 

"  Why,  what  else  is  he  ?  " 
I       "A  more  offensive  word  a  man  could  not  hear  from  the  lips 
of  a  woman,"  said  George  loftily. 

"A  man,  I  dare  say  !  But  Mr.  Helmer  can't  be  nineteen 
yet." 

"How  can  you  say  so,  when  he  told  you  himself  he  would 
be  of  age  in  a  few  months  ?  The  fellow  is  older  than  I  am. 
You'll  be  calling  me  a  boy  next." 

' '  What  else  are  you  ?  You  at  least  are  not  one-and-twenty.  * 

"And  how  old  do  you  call  yourself,  pray,  miss  ?  " 

" Three-and-twenty  last  birthday." 

"A  mighty  difference  indeed  !" 


THE  SHOP.  Xi 

"Not  much — only  all  the  difference,  it  seems,  between  sense 
and  absurdity,  George." 

"That  may  be  all  very  true  of  a  fine  gentleman,  like  Hel- 
mer,  that  does  nothing  from  morning  to  night  but  run  away 
from  his  mother  ;  but  you  don't  think  it  applies  to  me,  Mary, 
I  hope  ! " 

"That's  as  you  behave  yourself,  George.  If  you  do  not 
make  it  apply,  it  won't  apply  of  itself.  But  if  young  women 
had  not  more  sense  than  most  of  the  young  men  I  see  in  the 
shop — on  both  sides  of  the  counter,  George — things  would  soon 
be  at  a  fine  pass.  Nothing  better  in  your  head  than  in  a 
peacock's  ! — only  that  a  peacock  has  the  fine  feathers  he's  so 
proud  of." 

"  If  it  were  Mr.  Wardour  now,  Mary,  that  was  spreading  his 
tail  for  you  to  see,  you  would  not  complain  of  that  peacock  ! " 

A  vivid  rose  blossomed  instantly  in  Mary's  cheek.  Mr. 
Wardour  was  not  even  an  acquaintance  of  hers.  He  was 
cousin  and  friend  to  Letty  Lovel,  indeed,  but  she  had  never 
spoken  to  him,  except  in  the  shop. 

"It  would  not  be  quite  out  of  place  if  you  were  to  learn  a 
little  respect  for  your  superiors,  George,"  she  returned.  "Mr. 
Wardour  is  not  to  be  thought  of  in  the  same  moment  with  the 
young  men  that  were  in  my  mind.  Mr.  Wardour  is  not  a 
young  man  ;  and  he  is  a  gentleman." 

She  took  the  glove-box,  and  turning  placed  it  on  a  shelf 
behind  her. 

"Just  so!"  remarked  George,  bitterly.  "Any  man  you 
don't  choose  to  count  a  gentleman,  you  look  down  upon ! 
What  have  you  got  to  do  with  gentlemen,  I  should  like  to 
know  ?  " 

"  To  admire  one  when  I  see  him,"  answered  Mary.  "  Why 
shouldn't  I  ?    It  is  very  seldom,  and  it  does  me  good." 

"  Oh,  yes  ! "  rejoined  George,  contemptuously.  "  You 
call  yourself  a  lady,  but — " 

"I  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  interrupted  Mary,  sharply. 
1 '  I  should  like  to  be  a  lady  ;  and  inside  of  me,  please  God,  I 
will  be  a  lady  ;  but  I  leave  it  to  other  people  to  call  me  this  or 
that.     It  matters  little  what  any  one  is  called" 


12  MART  MARSTOF. 

"All  right,"  returned  George,  a  little  cowed;  "I  don't 
mean  to  contradict  yon.  Only  just  tell  me  why  a  well-to-do 
tradesman  shouldn't  be  a  gentleman  as  well  as  a  small  yeo- 
man like  Wardour." 

"  Why  don't  you  say — as  well  as  a  squire,  or  an  earl,  or  a 
duke  ? "  said  Mary. 

"  There  you  are,  chaffing  me  again  !  It's  hard  enough  to 
have  every  fool  of  a  lawyer's  clerk,  or  a  doctor's  hoy,  looking 
down  upon  a  fellow,  and  calling  him  a  counter-jumper ;  but, 
upon  my  soul,  it's  too  bad  when  a  girl  in  the  same  shop  hasn't 
a  civil  word  for  him,  because  he  isn't  what  she  counts  a  gentle- 
man !    Isn't  my  father  a  gentleman  ?    Answer  me  that,  Mary." 

It  was  one  of  George's  few  good  things  that  he  had  a  great  • 
opinion  of  his  father,  though  the  grounds  of  it  were  hardly 
such  as  to  enable  Mary  to  answer  his  appeal  in  a  way  he  would 
have  counted  satisfactory.     She  thought  of  her  own  father,  and 
was  silent. 

"  Everything  depends  on  what  a  man  is  in  himself,  George," 
she  answered.  "Mr.  "Wardour  would  be  a  gentleman  all  the 
same  if  he  were  a  shopkeeper  or  a  blacksmith." 

"And  shouldn't  I  be  as  good  a  gentleman  as  Mr.  Wardour, 
if  I  had  been  born  with  an  old  tumble-down  house  on  my 
back,  and  a  few  acres  of  land  I  could  do  with  as  I  liked  ? 
Come,  answer  me  that." 

"  If  it  be  the  house  and  the  land  that  makes  the  difference, 
you  would,  of  course,"  answered  Mary. 

Her  tone  implied,  even  to  George's  rough  perceptions,  that 
there  was  a  good  deal  more  of  a  difference  between  them  than 
therein  lay.  But  common  people,  whether  lords  or  shop- 
keepers, are  slow  to  understand  that  possession,  whether  in  the 
shape  of  birth,  or  lands,  or  money,  or  intellect,  is  a  small 
affair  in  the  difference  between  men. 

"I  know  you  don't  think  me  fit  to  hold  a  candle  to  him," 
he  said.  "But  I  happen  to  know,  for  all  he  rides  such  a  good 
horse,  he's  not  above  doing  the  work  of  a  wretched  menial,  for 
he  polishes  his  own  stirrup-irons." 

"I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  rejoined  Mary.  "He  must  be 
more  of  a  gentleman  yet  than  I  thought  him." 


THE  SEOP.  13 

"Then  why  should  you  count  him  a  better  gentleman  than 
me?" 

"I'm  afraid,  for  one  thing,  you  would  go  with  your  stirrup- 
irons  rusty,  rather  than  clean  them  yourself,  George.  But  I 
will  tell  you  one  thing  Mr.  Wardour  would  not  do  if  he  were 
a  shopkeeper :  he  would  not,  like  you,  talk  one  way  to  the 
rich,  and  another  way  to  the  poor — all  submission  and  polite- 
ness to  the  one,  and  familiarity,  even  to  rudeness,  with  the 
other  !  If  you  go  on  like  that,  you'll  never  .come  within 
sight  of  being  a  gentleman,  George — not  if  you  live  to  the  age 
of  Methuselah." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Mary  !  It's  a  fine  thing  to  have  a  lady 
in  the  shop !  Shouldn't  I  just  like  my  father  to  hear  you  ! 
I'm  blowed  if  I  know  how  a  fellow  is  to  get  on  with  you  !  Cer- 
tain sure  I  am  that  it  ain't  my  fault  if  we're  not  friends." 

Mary  made  no  reply.  She  could  not  help  understanding 
what  George  meant,  and  she  flushed,  with  honest  anger,  from 
brow  to  chin.  But,  while  her  dark-blue  eyes  flamed  Avith  in- 
dignation, her  anger  was  not  such  as  to  render  her  face  less 
pleasant  to  look  upon.  There  are  as  many  kinds  of  anger  as 
there  are  of  the  sunsets  with  which  they  ought  to  end'1;  Mary's 
anger  had  no  hate  in  it. 

I  must  now  hope  my  readers  sufficiently  interested  in  my 
narrative  to  care  that  I  should  tell  them  something  of  what 
she  was  like.  Plainly  as  I  see  her,  I  can  not  do  more  for  them 
than  that.  I  can  not  give  a  portrait  of  her  ;  I  can  but  cast 
her  shadow  on  my  page.  It  was  a  dainty  half-length,  neither 
tall  nor  short,  in  a  plain,  well-fitting  dress  of  black  silk,  with 
linen  collar  and  cuffs,  that  rose  above  the  counter,  standing, 
in  spite  of  displeasure,  calm  and  motionless.  Her  hair  was 
dark,  and  dressed  in  the  simplest  manner,  without  even  a  re- 
minder of  the  hideous  occipital  structure  then  in  favor — es- 
pecially with  shop  women,  who  in  general  choose  for  imitation 
and  exorbitant  development  whatever  is  ugliest  and  least  lady- 
like in  the  fashion  of  the  hour.  It  had  a  natural  wave  in  it, 
which  broke  the  too  straight  lines  it  would  otherwise  have 
made  across  a  forehead  of  sweet  and  composing  proportions. 
Her  features  were  regular — her  nose  straight — perhaps  a  little 


14  MARY  MAR8T0K 

thin ;  the  curve  of  her  upper  lip  carefully  drawn,  as  if  with 
design-  to  express  a  certain  firmness  of  modesty ;  and  her  chin 
well  shaped,  perhaps  a  little  too  sharply  defined  for  her  years, 
and  rather  large.  Everything  about  her  suggested  the  repose 
of  order  satisfied,  of  unconstrained  obedience  to  the  laws  of 
harmonious  relation.  The  only  fault  honest  criticism  could 
have  suggested,  merely  suggested,  was  the  presence  of  just  a 
possible  nuance  of  primness.  Her  boots,  at  this  moment  un- 
seen of  any,  fitted  her  feet,  as  her  feet  fitted  her  body.  Her 
hands  were  especially  good.  There  are  not  many  ladies,  inter- 
ested in  their  own  graces,  who  would  not  have  envied  her  such 
seals  to  her  natural  patent  of  ladyhood.  Her  speech  and  man- 
ners corresponded  with  her  person  and  dress ;  they  were  direct 
and  simple,  in  tone  and  inflection,  those  of  one  at  peace  with 
herself.  Neatness  was  more  notable  in  her  than  grace,  but 
grace  was  not  absent ;  good  breeding  was  more  evident  than 
delicacy,  yet  delicacy  was  there  ;  and  unity  was  plain  through- 
out. 

George  went  back  to  his  own  side  of  the  shop,  jumped  the 
counter,  put  the  cover  on  the  box  he  had  left  open  with  a  bang, 
and  shoved  it  into  its  place  as  if  it  had  been  the  backboard  of 
a  cart,  shouting  as  he  did  so  to  a  boy  invisible,  to  make  haste 
and  put  up  the  shutters.  Mary  left  the  shop  by  a  door  on  the 
inside  of  the  counter,  for  she  and  her  father  lived  in  the  house  ; 
and,  as  soon  as  the  shop  was  closed,  G-eorge  went  home  to  the 
villa  his  father  had  built  in  the  suburbs. 


CHAPTEK  II. 

CUSTOMERS. 

The  next  day  was  Saturday,  a  busy  one  at  the  shop.  From 
the  neighboring  villages  and  farms  came  customers  not  a  few  ; 
and  ladies,  from  the  country-seats  around,  oegan  to  arrive  as 
the  hours  went  on.  The  whole  strength  of  the  establishment 
was  early  called  out. 


CUSTOMERS.  15 

Busiest  in  serving  was  the  senior  partner,  Mr.  Tumbull. 
He  was  a  stout,  florid  man,  with  a  bald  crown,  a  heavy  watch- 
chain  of  the  best  gold  festooned  across  the  wide  space  between 
waistcoat-button-hole  and  pocket,  and  a  large  hemispheroidal 
carbuncle  on  a  huge  fat  finger,  which  yet  was  his  little  one. 
He  was  close-shaved,  double-chinned,  and  had  cultivated  an 
ordinary  smile  to  such  an  extraordinary  degree  that,  to  use 
the  common  hyperbole,  it  reached  from  ear  to  ear.  By  nature 
he  was  good-tempered  and  genial ;  but,  having  devoted  every 
mental  as  well  as  physical  endowment  to  the  making  of  money, 
what  few  drops  of  spiritual  water  were  in  him  had  to  go  with 
the  rest  to  the  turning  of  the  mill-wheel  that  ground  the  uni- 
verse into  coin.  In  his  own  eyes  he  was  a  strong  churchman, 
but  the  only  sign  of  it  visible  to  others  was  the  strength  of  his 
contempt  for  dissenters — which,  however,  excepting  his  part- 
ner and  Mary,  he  showed  only  to  church-people  ;  a  .dissenter's 
money  being,  as  he  often  remarked,  when  once  in  his  till,  as 
good  as  the  best  churchman's. 

To  the  receptive  eye  he  was  a  sight  not  soon  to  be  for- 
gotten, as  he  bent  over  a  piece  of  goods ,  outspread  before  a 
customer,  one  hand  resting  on  the  stuff,  tbe  other  on  the  yard- 
measure,  his  chest  as  nearly  touching  the  counter  as  the  pro- 
testing adjacent  parts  would  permit,  his  broad  smooth  face 
turned  up  at  right  angles,  and  his  mouth,  eloquent  even  to  so- 
lemnity on  the  merits  of  the  article,  now  hiding,  now  disclos- 
ing a  gulf  of  white  teeth.  No  sooner  was  anything  admitted 
into  stock,  than  he  bent  his  soul  to  the  selling  of  it,  doing  every- 
thing that  could  be  done,  saying  everything  he  could  think 
of  saying,  short  of  plain  lying  as  to  its  quality  :  that  he  was 
not  guilty  of.  To  buy  well  was  a  care  to  him,  to  sell  well  was 
a  greater,  but  to  make  money,  and  that  as  speedily  as  possible, 
was  his  greatest  care,  and  his  whole  ambition. 

John  Turnbull  in  his  gig,  as  he  drove  along  the  road  to  the 
town,  and  through  the  street  approached  his  shop-door,  showed 
to  the  chance  observer  a  man  who  knew  himself  of  importance, 
a  man  who  might  have  a  soul  somewhere  inside  that  broad 
waistcoat ;  as  he  drew  up,  threw  the  reins  to  his  stable-boy,  and 
descended  upon  the  pavement — as  he  stepped  down  into  the 


16  .  MART  MARSTOK 

shop  even,  lie  looked  a  being  in  whom  son  or  daughter  or 
friend  might  feel  some  honest  pride  ;  but,  the  moment  he  was 
behind  the  counter  and  in  front  of  a  customer,  he  changed  to 
a  creature  whose  appearance  and  carriage  were  painfully  con- 
temptible to  any  beholder  who  loved  his  kind  ;  he  had  lost  the 
upright  bearing  of  a  man,  and  cringed  like  an  ape.  But  I 
fear  it  was  thus  he  had  gained  a  portion  at  least  of  his 
favor  with  the  country-folk,  many  of  whom  much  preferred 
his  ministrations  to  those  of  his  partner.  A  glance,  indeed, 
from  the  one  to  the  other,  was  enough  to  reveal  which  must 
be  the  better  salesman — and  to  some  eyes  which  the  better 
man. 

In  the  narrow  walk  of  his  commerce — behind  the  counter, 
I  mean — Mr.  Marston  stood  up  tall  and  straight,  lank  and  lean, 
seldom  bending  more  than  his  long  neck  in  the  direction  of  the 
counter,  but  doing  everything  needful  upon  it  notwithstand- 
ing, from  the  unusual  length  of  his  arms  and  his  bony  hands. 
His  forehead  was  high  and  narrow,  his  face  pale  and  thin,  his 
hair  long  and  thin,  his  nose  aquiline  and  thin,  his  eyes  large, 
his  mouth  and  chin  small.  He  seldom  spoke  a  syllable  more 
than  was  needful,  but  his  words  breathed  calm  resj)ect  to  every 
customer.  His  conversation  with  one  was  commonly  all  but 
over  as  he  laid  something  for  approval  or  rejection  on  the 
counter  :  he  had  already  taken  every  pains  to  learn  the  precise 
nature  of  the  necessity  or  desire  ;  and  what  he  then  offered  he 
submitted  without  comment ;  if  the  thing  was  not  judged 
satisfactory,  he  removed  it  and  brought  another.  Many  did 
not  like  this  mode  of  service  ;  they  would  be  helped  to  buy ; 
unequal  to  the  task  of  making  up  their  minds,  they  welcomed 
any  aid  toward  it ;  and  therefore  preferred  Mr.  Turnbull,  who 
gave  them  every  imaginable  and  unimaginable  assistance,  grov- 
eling before  them  like  a  man  whose  many  gods  came  to  him 
one  after  the  other  to  be  worshiped  ;  while  Mr.  Marston,  the 
moment  the  thing  he  presented  was  on  the  counter,  shot 
straight  up  like  a  poplar*  in  a  sudden  calm,  his  visage  bearing 
witness  that  his  thought  was  already  far  away — in  heavenly 
places  with  his  wife,  or  hovering  like  a  perplexed  bee  over  some 
difficult  passage  in  the  New  Testament ;  Mary  could  have  told 


CUSTOMERS.  17 

which,  for  she  knew  the  meaning  of  every  shadow  that  passed 
or  lingered  on  his  countenance. 

His  partner  and  his  like-minded  son  despised  him,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course  ;  his  unbusiness-like  habits,  as  they  counted  them, 
were  the  constantly  recurring  theme  of  their  scorn  ;  and  some 
of  these  would  doubtless  have  brought  him  the  disapprobation 
of  many  a  business  man  of  a  moral  development  beyond  that 
of  Turnbull ;  but  Mary  saw  nothing  in  them  which  did  not 
stamp  her  father  the  superior  of  all  other  men  she  knew. 

To  mention  one  thing,  which  may  serve  as  typical  of  the 
man:  he  not  unfrequently  sold  things  under  the  price  marked 
by  his  partner.  Against  this  breach  of  fealty  to  the  firm  Turn- 
bull  never  ceased  to  level  his  biggest  guns  of  indignation  and 
remonstrance,  though  always  without  effect.  .  He  even  lowered 
himself  in  his  own  eyes  so  far  as  to  quote  Scripture  like  a  cant- 
ing dissenter,  and  remind  his  partner  of  what  came  to  a  house 
divided  against  itself.  He  did  not  see  that  the  best  thing  for 
some  houses  must  be  to  come  to  pieces.  "  Well,  but,  Mr.  Turn- 
bull,  I  thought  it  was  marked  too  high,"  was  the  other's  inva- 
riable answer.  "  William,  you  are  a  fool,"  his  partner  would 
rejoin  for  the  hundredth  time.  "Will  you  never  understand 
that,  if  we  get  a  little  more  than  the  customary  profit  upon  one 
thing,  we  get  less  upon  another  ?  You  must  make  the  thing 
even,  or  come  to  the  workhouse."  Thereto,  for  the  hundredth 
time  also,  William  Marston  would  reply:  "That  might  hold, 
I  daresay,  Mr.  Turnbull — I  am  not  sure — if  every  customer 
always  bought  an  article  of  each  of  the  two  sorts  together  ;  but 
I  can't  make  it  straight  with  my  conscience  that  one  customer 
should  pay  too  much  because  I  let  another  pay  too  little.  Be- 
sides, I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  the  general  scale  of  profit  is  not 
set  too  high.  I  fear  you  and  I  will  have  to  part,  Mr.  Turnbull." 
But  nothing  was  further  from  Turnbull's  desire  than  that  he 
and  Marston  should  part ;  he  could  not  keep  the  business  going 
without  his  money,  not  to  mention  that  he  never  doubted  Mars- 
ton would  straightway  open  another  shop,  and,  even  if  he  did 
not  undersell  him,  take  from  him  all  his  dissenting  customers  ; 
for  the  junior  partner  was  deacon  of  a  small  Baptist  church  in 
the  town — a  fact  which,  although  like  vinegar  to  the  teeth  and 


18  MARY  MARSTON. 

smoke  to  the  eyes  of  John  Turnbull  in  his  villa,  was  invaluable 
in  the  eyes  of  John  Turnbull  behind  his  counter. 

Whether  William  Marston  was  right  or  wrong  in  his  ideas 
about  the  rite  of  baptism — probably  he  was  both — he  was  cer- 
tainly right  in  his  relation  to  that  which  alone  makes  it  of  any 
value — that,  namely,  which  it  signifies  ;  buried  with  his  Mas- 
ter, he  had  died  to  selfishness,  greed,  and  trust  in  the  second- 
ary ;  died  to  evil,  and  risen  to  good — a  new  creature.  He  was 
jnst  as  much  a  Christian  in  his  shop  as  in  the  chapel,  in  his 
bedroom  as  at  the  prayer-meeting. 

But  the  world  was  not  now  much  temptation  to  him,  and, 
to  tell  the  truth,  he  was  getting  a  good  deal  tired  of  the  shop. 
He  had  to  remind  himself,  oftener  and  oftener,  that  in  the 
mean  time  it  was  the  work  given  him  to  do,  and  to  take  more 
and  more  frequently  the  strengthening  cordial  of  a  glance 
across  the  shop  at  his  daughter.  Such  a  glance  passed  through 
the  dusky  place  like  summer  lightning  through  a  heavy  atmos- 
phere, and  came  to  Mary  like  a  glad  prophecy  ;  for  it  told  of  a 
world  within  and  beyond  the  world,  a  region  of  love  and  faith, 
where  struggled  no  antagonistic  desires,  no  counteracting  aims, 
but  unity  was  the  visible  garment  of  truth. 

The  question  may  well  suggest  itself  to  my  reader — How 
could  such  a  man  be  so  unequally  yoked  with  such  another  as 
Turnbull  ? — To  this  I  reply  that  Marston's  greatness  had  yet  a 
certain  repressive  power  upon  the  man  who  despised  him,  so 
that  he  never  uttered  his  worst  thoughts  or  revealed  his  worst 
basenesses  in  his  presence.  Marston  never  thought  of  him  as 
my  reader  must  soon  think — flattered  himself,  indeed,  that 
poor  John  was  gradually  improving,  coming  to  see  things  more 
and  more  as  he  would  have  him  look  on  them..  Add  to  this, 
that  they  had  been  in  the  business  together  almost  from  boy- 
hood, and  much  will  be  explained. 

An  open  carriage,  with  a  pair  of  showy  but  ill-matched 
horses,  looking  unfit  for  country  work  on  the  one  hand,  as  for 
Hyde  Park  on  the  other,  drew  up  at  the  door  ;  and  a  visible 
wave  of  interest  ran  from  end  to  end  of  the  shop,  swaying  as 
well  those  outside  as  those  inside  the  counter,  for  the  carriage 
was  well  known  in  Testbridge.     It  was  that  of  Lady  Margaret 


CUSTOMERS.  19 

Mortimer ;  she  did  not  herself  like  the  Margaret,  and  signed 
only  her  second  name  Alice  at  full  length,  whence  her  friends 
generally  called  her  to  each  other  Lady  Malice.  She  did  not 
leave  the  carriage,  but  continued  to  recline  motionless  in  it,  at 
an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  wrapped  in  furs,  for  the  day  was 
cloudy  and  cold,  her  pale  handsome  face  looking  inexpressibly 
more  indifferent  in  its  regard  of  earth  and  sky  and  the  goings 
of  men,  than  that  of  a  corpse  whose  gaze  is  only  on  the  inside 
of  the  coffin-lid.  But  the  two  ladies  who  were  with  her  a:ot 
down.  One  of  them  was  her  daughter,  Hesper  by  name,  who, 
from  the  dull,  cloudy  atmosphere  that  filled  the  doorway,  en- 
tered the  shop  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  dusky-golden,  followed 
by  a  glowing  shadow,  in  the  person  of  her  cousin,  Miss  Yol- 
land. 

Turnbull  hurried  to  meet  them,  bowing  profoundly,  and 
looking  very  much  like  Issachar  between  the  chairs  he  carried. 
But  they  turned  aside  to  where  Mary  stood,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes the  counter  was  covered  with  various  stuffs  for  some  of 
the  smaller  articles  of  ladies'  attire. 

The  customers  were  hard  to  please,  for  they  wanted  the 
best  things  at  the  price  of  inferior  ones,  and  Mary  noted  that 
the  desires  of  the  cousin  were  farther  reaching  and  more  ex- 
pensive than  those  of  Miss  Mortimer.  But,  though  in  this  way 
hard  to  please,  they  were  not  therefore  unpleasant  to  deal  with ; 
and  from  the  moment  she  looked  the  latter  in  the  face,  whom 
she  had  not  seen  since  she  was  a  girl,  Mary  could  hardly  take 
her  eyes  off  her.  All  at  once  it  struck  her  how  well  the  un- 
usual, fantastic  name  her  mother  had  given  her  suited  her  ; 
and,  as  she  gazed,  the  feeling  grew. 

Large,  and  grandly  made,  Hesper  stood  "  straight,  and 
steady,  and  tall,"  dusky-fair,  and  colorless,  with  the  carriage 
of  a  young  matron.  Her  brown  hair  seemed  ever  scathed  and 
crinkled  afresh  by  the  ethereal  flame  that  here  and  there  peeped 
from  amid  the  unwilling  volute  rolled  back  from  her  creamy 
forehead  in  a  rebellious  coronet.  Her  eyes  were  large  and 
hazel ;  her  nose  cast  gently  upward,  answering  the  carriage  of 
her  head  ;  her  mouth  decidedly  large,  but  so  exquisite  in  draw- 
ing and  finish  that  the  loss  of  a  centimetre  of  its  length  would 


20  MART  MARSTON. 

to  a  lover  have  been  as  the  loss  of  a  kingdom  ;  her  chin  a  trifle 
large,  and  grandly  lined  ;  for  a  woman's,  her  throat  was  mas- 
sive, and  her  arms  and  hands  were  powerful.  Her  expression 
was  frank,  almost  brave,  her  eyes  looking  full  at  the  person 
she  addressed.  As  she  gazed,  a  kind  of  love  she  had  never  felt 
before  kept  swelling  in  Mary's  heart. 

Her  companion  impressed  her  very  differently. 

Some  men,  and  most  women,  counted  Miss  Yolland  strange- 
ly ugly.  But  there  were  men  who  exceedingly  admired  her. 
Not  very  slight  for  her  stature,  and  above  the  middle  height, 
she  looked  small  beside  Hesper.  Her  skin  was  very  dark,  with 
a  considerable  touch  of  sallowness  ;  her  eyes,  which  were  large 
and  beautifully  shaped,  were  as  black  as  eyes  could  be,  with 
light  in  the  midst  of  their  blackness,  and  more  than  a  touch  of 
hardness  in  the  midst  of  their  liquidity  ;  her  eyelashes  were 
singularly  long  and  black,  and  she  seemed  conscious  of  them 
every  time  they  rose.  She  did  not  use  her  eyes  habitually,  but, 
when  she  did,  the  thrust  was  sudden  and  straight.  I  heard  a 
man  once  say  that  a  look  from  her  was  like  a  volley  of  small- 
arms.  Like  Hesper' s,  her  mouth  was  large  and  good,  with 
fine  teeth ;  her  chin  projected  a  little  too  much ;  her  hands 
were  finer  than  Hesper's,  but  bony.  Her  name  was  Septimia  ; 
Lady  Margaret  called  her  Sepia,  and  the  contraction  seemed  to 
so  many  suitable  that  it  was  ere  long  generally  adopted.  She 
was  in  mourning,  with  a  little  crape.  To  the  first  glance 
she  seemed  as  unlike  Hesper  as  she  could  well  be  ;  but,  as  she 
stood  gently  regarding  the  two,  Mary,  gradually,  and  to  her 
astonishment,  became  indubitably  aware  of  a  singular  likeness 
between  them.  Sepia,  being  a  few  years  older,  and  in  less 
flourishing  condition,  had  her  features  sharper  and  finer,  and 
by  nature  her  complexion  was  darker  by  shades  innumerable  ; 
but,  if  the  one  was  the  evening,  the  other  was  the  night :  Se- 
pia was  a  diminished  and  overshadowed  Hesper.  Their  man- 
ner, too,  was  similar,  but  Sepia's  was  the  haughtier,  and  she 
had  an  occasional  look  of  defiance,  of  which  there  appeared 
nothing  in  Hesper.  When  first  she  came  to  Durnmelling, 
Lady  Malice  had  once  alluded  to  the  dependence  of  her  po- 
sition— but  only  once  :  there  came  a  flash  into  rather  than  out 


CUSTOMERS.  21 

of  Sepia's  eyes  that  made  any  repetition  of  the  insult  impos- 
sible, and  Lady  Malice  wish  that  she  had  left  her  a  wanderer 
on  the  face  of  Europe. 

Sepia  was  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman,  an  uncle  of  Lady 
Malice,  whose  sons  had  all  gone  to  the  had,  and  whose  daugh- 
ters had  all  vanished  from  society.  Shortly  before  the  time  at 
which  my  narrative  begins,  one  of  the  latter,  however,  namely 
Sepia,  the  youngest,  had  reappeared,  a  fragment  of  the  family 
wreck,  floating  over  the  gulf  of  its  destruction.  Nobody  knew 
with  any  certainty  where  she  had  been  in  the  interim  :  nobody 
at  Durnmelliug  knew  anything  bub  what  she  chose  to  tell,  and 
that  was  not  much.  She  said  she  had  been  a  governess  in  Aus- 
trian Poland  and  Eussia.  Lady  Margaret  had  become  recon- 
ciled to  her  presence,  and  Hesper  attached  to  her. 

Of  the  men  who,  as  I  have  said,  admired  her,  some  felt  a 
peculiar  enchantment  in  what  they  called  her  ugliness ;  others 
declared  her  devilish  handsome  ;  and  some  shrank  from  her  as  if 
with  an  undefined  dread  of  perilous  entanglement,  if  she  should 
but  catch  them  looking  her  in  the  face.  Among  some  of  them 
she  was  known  as  Lucifer,  in  antithesis  to  Hesper  :  they  meant 
the  Lucifer  of  darkness,  not  the  light-bringer  of  the  morning. 

The  ladies,  on  their  part,  especially  Hesper,  were  much 
pleased  with  Mary.  The  simplicity  of  her  address  and  manner, 
the  pains  she  took  to  find  the  exact  thing  she  wanted,  and  the 
modest  decision  with  which  she  answered  any  reference  to  her, 
made  Hesper  even  like  her.  The  most  artificially  educated  •  of 
women  is  yet  human,  and  capable  of  even  more  than  liking  a 
fellow-creature  as  such.  When  their  purchases  were  ended, 
she  took  her  leave  with  a  kind  smile,  which  went  on  glowing 
in  Mary's  heart  long  after  she  had  vanished. 

"Home,  John,"  said  Lady  Margaret,  the  moment  the  two 
ladies  were  seated.  "I  hope  you  have  got  all  you  wanted. 
We  shall  be  late  for  luncheon,  I  fear.  I  would  not  for  worlds 
keep  Mr.  Eedmain  waiting. — A  little  faster,  John,  please." 

Hesper's  face  darkened.  Sepia  eyed  her  fixedly,  from  under 
the  mingling  of  ascended  lashes  and  descended  brows.  The 
coachman  pretended  to  obey,  but  the  horses  knew  very  well 
when  he  did  and  when  he  did  not  mean  them  to  go,  and  took 


22  MART  MARSTON. 

not  a  step  to  the  minute  more  :  John  had  regard  to  the  splen- 
did-looking black  horse  on  the  near  side,  which  was  weak  in 
the  wind,  as  well  as  on  one  fired  pastern,  and  cared  little  for 
the  anxiety  of  his  mistress.  To  him,  horses  were  the  final  peak 
of  creation — or  if  not  the  horses,  the  coachman,  whose  they  are 
— masters  and  mistresses  the  merest  parasitical  adjuncts.  He 
got  them  home  in  good  time  for  luncheon,  notwithstanding — 
more  to  Lady  Margaret's  than  Hesper's  satisfaction. 

Mr.  Eedmain  was  a  bachelor  of  fifty,  to  whom  Lady  Mar- 
garet was  endeavoring  to  make  the  family  agreeable,  in  the  hope 
he  might  take  Hesper  off  their  hands.  I  need  not  say  he  was 
rich.  He  was  a  common  man,  with  good  cold  manners,  which 
he  offered  you  like  a  handle.  He  was  selfish,  capable  of  pick- 
ing up  a  lady's  handkerchief,  but  hardly  a  wife's.  He  was 
attentive  to  Hesper ;  but  she  scarcely  concealed  such  a  repug- 
nance to  him  as  some  feel  at  sight  of  strange  fishes — being  at 
the  same  time  afraid  of  him,  which  was  not  surprising,  as  she 
could  hardly  fail  to  perceive  the  fate  intended  for  her. 

"Ain't  Miss  Mortimer  a  stunner?"  said  George  Turnbull 
to  Mary,  when  the  tide  of  customers  had  finally  ebbed  from  the 
shop. 

"I  don't  exactly  know  what  you  mean,  George,"  answered 
Mary. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  I  know  it  ain't  fair  to  ask  any  girl  to  ad- 
mire another,"  said  George.  "But  there's  no  offense  to  you, 
Mary.  One  young  lady  can't  carry  every  merit  on  her  back. 
She'd  be  too  lovely  to  live,  you  know.  Miss  Mortimer  ain't 
got  your  waist,  nor  she  ain't  got  your  'ands,  nor  your  'air ; 
and  you  ain't  got  her  size,  nor  the  sort  of  hair  she  'as  with 
her." 

He  looked  up  from  the  piece  of  leno  he  was  smoothing  out, 
and  saw  he  was  alone  in  the  shop. 


THE  ARBOR  AT  THORN  WICK  23 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE   AEBOE   AT   THOKNWICK. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday  at  last,  a  day  dear  to  all  who  do 
anything  like  their  duty  in  the  week,  whether  they  go  to  church 
or  not.  For  Mary,  she  went  to  the  Baptist  chapel ;  it  was  her 
custom,  rendered  holy  by  the  companionship  of  her  father.  But 
this  day  it  was  with  more  than  ordinary  restlessness  and  lack  of 
interest  that  she  stood,  knelt,  and  sat,  through  the  routine  of 
observance  ;  for  old  Mr.  Duppa  was  certainly  duller  than  usual: 
how  could  it  be  otherwise,"  when  he  had  been  preparing  to  spend 
a  mortal  hour  in  descanting  on  the  reasons  which  necessitated 
the  separation  of  all  true  Baptists  from  all  brother-believers  ? 
The  narrow,  high-souled  little  man — for  a  soul  as  well  as  a  fore- 
head can  be  both  high  and  narrow — was  dull  that  morning  be- 
cause he  spoke  out  of  his  narrowness,  and  not  out  of  his  height; 
and  Mary  was  better  justified  in  feeling  bored  than  even  when 
George  Turnbull  plagued  her  with  his  vulgar  attentions.  When 
she  got  out  at  last,  sedate  as  she  was,  she  could  hardly  help  skip- 
ping along  the  street  by  her  father's  side.  Far  better  than  chapel 
was  their  nice  little  cold  dinner  together,  in  their  only  sitting- 
room,  redolent  of  the  multifarious  goods  piled  around  it  on  all 
the  rest  of  the  floor.  Greater  yet  was  the  following  pleasure 
— of  making  her  father  lie  down  on  the  sofa,  and  reading  him 
to  sleep,  after  which  she  would  .doze  a  little  herself,  and  dream 
a  little,  in  the  great  chair  that  had  been  her  grandmother's. 
Then  they  had  their  tea,  and  then  her  father  always  went  to 
see  the  minister  before  chapel  in  the  evening. 

When  he  was  gone,  Mary  would  put  on  her  pretty  straw 
bonnet,  and  set  out  to  visit  Letty  Lovel  at  Thornwick.  Some 
of  the  church-members  thought  this  habit  of  taking  a  walk,  in- 
stead of  going  again  to  the  chapel,  very  worldly,  and  did  not 
scruple  to  let  her  know  their  opinion  ;  but,  so  long  as  her  father 
was  satisfied  with  her,  Mary  did  not  care  a  straw  for  the  world 
besides.  She  was  too  much  occupied  with  obedience  to  trouble 
her  head  about  opinion,  either  her  own  or  other  people's.  Kot 
until  a  question  comes  puzzling  and  troubling  us  so  as  to  para- 


24  MA  BY  MARS  TOUT. 

lyze  the  energy  of  our  obedience  is  there  any  necessity  for  its 
solution,  or  any  probability  of  finding  a  real  one.  A  thousand 
foolish  doctrines  may  lie  unquestioned  in  the  mind,  and  never 
interfere  with  the  growth  or  bliss  of  him  who  lives  in  active 
subordination  of  his  life  to  the  law  of  life  :  obedience  will  in 
time  exorcise  them,  like  many  another  worse  devil. 

It  had  drizzled  all  the  morning  from  the  clouds  as  well  as 
from  the  pulpit,  but,  just  as  Mary  stepped  out  of  the  kitchen- 
door,  the  sun  stepped  out  of  the  last  rain-cloud.  She  walked 
quickly  from  the  town,  eager  for  the  fields  and  the  trees,  but 
in  some  dread  of  finding  Tom  Helmer  at  the  stile  ;  for  he  was 
such  a  fool,  she  said  to  herself,  that  there  was  no  knowing  what 
he  might  do,  for  all  she  had  said  ;  but  he  had  thought  better  of 
it,  and  she  was  soon  crossing  meadows  and  cornfields  in  peace, 
by  a  path  which,  with  many  a  winding,  and  many  an  up  and 
down,  was  the  nearest  way  to  Thornwick. 

The  saints  of  old  did  well  to  pray  God  to  lift  on  them  the 
light  of  his  countenance  :  has  the  Christian  of  the  new  time 
learned  of  his  Master  that  the  clouds  and  the  sunshine  come 
and  go  of  themselves  ?  If  the  sunshine  fills  the  hearts  of  old 
men  and  babes  and  birds  with  gladness  and  praise,  and  God 
never  meant  it,  then  are  they  all  idolaters,  and  have  but  a  care- 
less Father.  Sweet  earthy  odors  rose  about  Mary  from  the  wet 
ground  ;  the  rain-drops  glittered  on  the  grass  and  corn-blades 
and  hedgerows  ;  a  soft  damp  wind  breathed  rather  than  blew 
about  the  gaps  and  gates  ;  with  an  upward  springing,  like  that 
of  a  fountain  momently  gathering  strength,  the  larks  kept 
shooting  aloft,  there,  like  music-rockets,  to  explode  in  showers 
of  glowing  and  sparkling  song  ;  while,  all  the  time  and  over 
all,  the  sun  as  he  went  down  kept  shining  in  the  might  of  his 
peace  ;  and  the  heart  of  Mary  praised  her  Father  in  heaven. 

Where  the  narrow  path  ran  westward  for  a  little  way,  so 
that  she  could  see  nothing  for  the  sun  in  her  eyes,  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  plowed  field  she  would  have  run  right  against  a  gen- 
tleman, had  he  been  as  blind  as  she ;  but,  his  back  being  to 
the  sun,  he  saw  her  perfectly,  and  stepped  out  of  her  way  into 
the  midst  of  a  patch  of  stiff  soil,  where  the  rain  was  yet  lying 
between  the  furrows.     She  saw  him  then,  and  as,  lifting  his 


THE  ARBOR  AT  THORN  WICK.  25 

hat,   he  stepped  again  upon  the  path,    she  recognized  Mr. 
Wardour. 

"Oh,  your  nice  hoots  !"  she  cried,  in  the  childlike  distress 
of  a  simple  soul  discovering  itself  the  cause  of  catastrophe,  for 
his  boots  were  smeared  all  over  with  yellow  clay. 

"It  only  serves  me  right,"  returned  Mr.  Wardour,  with  a 
laugh  of  amusement.  "I  oughtn't  to  have  put  on  such  thin 
ones  at  the  first  smile  of  summer." 

Again  he  lifted  his  hat,  and  walked  on. 

Mary  also  pursued  her  path,  genuinely  though  gently 
pained  that  one  should  have  stepped  up  to  the  ankles  in  mud 
on  her  account.  As  I  have  already  said,  except  in  the  shop 
she  had  never  before  spoken  to  Mr.  Wardour,  and,  although 
he  had  so  simply  responded  to  her  exclamation,  he  did  not 
even  know  who  she  was. 

The  friendship  which  now  drew  Mary  to  Thornwick,  God- 
frey Wardour's  place,  was  not  one  of  long  date.  She  and 
Letty  Lovel  had,  it  is  true,  known  each  other  for  years,  but 
only  quite  of  late  had  their  acquaintance  ripened  into  some- 
thing better  ;  and  it  was  not  without  protestation  on  the  part 
of  Mrs.  Wardour,  Godfrey's  mother,  that  she  had  seen  the 
growth  of  an  intimacy  between  the  two  young  women.  The " 
society  of  a  shopwoman,  she  often  remarked,  was  far  from 
suitable  for  one  who,  as  the  daughter  of  a  professional  man, 
might  lay  claim  to  the  position  of  a  gentlewoman.  For  Letty 
was  the  orphan  daughter  of  a  country  surgeon,  a  cousin  of 
Mrs.  Wardour,  for  whom  she  had  had  a  great  liking  while  yet 
they  were  boy  and  girl  together.  At  the  same  time,  however 
much  she  would  have  her  consider  herself  the  superior  of  Mary 
Marston,  she  by  no  means  treated  her  as  her  own  equal,  and 
Letty  could  not  help  being  afraid  of  her  aunt,  as  she  called 
her. 

The  well-meaning  woman  was  in  fact  possessed  by  two 
devils — the  one  the  stiff-necked  devil  of  pride,  the  other  the 
condescending  devil  of  benevolence.  She  was  kind,  but  she 
must  have  credit  for  it ;  and  Letty,  although  the  child  of  a 
loved  cousin,  must  not  presume  upon  that,  or  forget  that  the 
wife  and  mother  of  long-descended  proprietors  of  certain  acres 
2 


26  MARY  MARSTOK 

of  land  was  greatly  the  superior  of  any  man  who  lived  by  the 
exercise  of  the  best-educated  and  most  helpful  profession. 
She  counted  herself  a  devout  Christian,  but  her  ideas  of  rank, 
at  least — therefore  certainly  not  a  few  others — were  absolutely 
opposed  to  the  Master's  teaching  :  they  who  did  least  for  oth- 
ers were  her  aristocracy. 

Now,  Letty  was  a  simple,  true-hearted  girl,  rather  slow, 
who  honestly  tried  to  understand  her  aunt's  position  with  re- 
gard to  her  friend.  "Shop-girls,"  her  aunt  had  said,  "are 
not  fitting  company  for  you,  Letty." 

"  I  do  not  know  any  other  shop-girls,  aunt,"  Letty  replied, 
with  hidden  trembling  ;  "but,  if  they  are  not  nice,  then  they 
are  not  like  Mary.  She's  downright  good  ;  indeed  she  is, 
aunt ! — a  great  deal,  ever  so  much,  better  than  I  am." 

"That  may  well  be,"  answered  Mrs.  Wardour,  "but  it 
does  not  make  a  lady  of  her." 

"I  am  sure,"  returned  Letty,  bewildered,  "on  Sundays 
you  could  not  tell  the  difference  between  her  and  any  other 
young  lady." 

"Any  other  well-dressed  young  woman,  my  dear,  you 
should  say.  I  believe  shop-girls  do  call  their  companions 
young  ladies,  but  that  can  not  justify  the  application  of  the 
word.  I  am  scarcely  bound  to  speak  of  my  cook  as  a  lady  be- 
cause letters  come  addressed  to  her  as  Miss  Tozer.  If  the 
word  '  lady '  should  sink  at  last  to  common  use,  as  in  Italy 
every  woman  is  Donna,  we  must  find  some  other  word  to  ex- 
press what  used  to  be  meant  by  it." 

"Is  Mrs.  Cropper  a  lady,  aunt  ?  "  asked  Letty,  after  a 
pause,  in  which  her  brains,  which  were  not  half  so  muddled  as 
she  thought  them,  had  been  busy  feeling  after  firm  ground  in 
the  morass  of  social  distinction  thus  opened  under  her. 

"She  is  received  as  such,"  replied  Mrs.  Wardour,  but  with 
doubled  stiffness,  through  which  ran  a  tone  of  injury. 

"Would  you  receive  her,  aunt,  if  she  called  upon  you  ?" 

"  She  has  horses  and  servants,  and  everything  a  woman  of 
the  world  can  desire  ;  but  I  should  feel  I  was  bowing  the  knee 
to  Mammon  were  I  to  ask  her  to  my  house.  Yet  such  is  the 
respect  paid  to  money  in  these  degenerate  days  that  many  a 


THE  ARBOR  AT  THORFWIGK.  27 

one  will  court  the  society  of  a  person  like  that,  who  would 
think  me  or  your  cousin  Godfrey  unworthy  of  notice,  because 
we  have  no  longer  a  tithe  of  the  property  the  family  once  pos- 
sessed." 

The  lady  forgot  there  is  a  Eimmon  as  well  as  a  Mammon. 

"God  knows,"  she  went  on,  "how  that  woman's  husband 
made  his  money  !  But  that  is  a  small  matter  nowadays,  ex- 
cept to  old-fashioned  people  like  myself.  Not  liow  but  Jioiu 
much,  is  all  the  question  now,"  she  concluded,  nattering  her- 
self she  had  made  a  good  point. 

"Don't  think  me  rude,  please,  aunt :  I  am  really  wishing 
to  understand — but,  if  Mrs.  Cropper  is  not  a  lady,  how  can 
Mary  Marston  not  be  one  ?  She  is  as  different  from  Mrs.  Crop- 
por  as  one  woman  can  be  from  another." 

"Because  she  has  not  the  position  in  society,"  replied  Mrs. 
Wardour,  enveloping  her  nothing  in  flimsy  reiteration  and  self- 
contradiction. 

"  And  Mrs.  Cropper  has  the  position  ? "  ventured  Letty, 
with  a  little  palpitation  from  fear  of  offending. 

"Apparently  so,"  answered  Mrs.  Wardour.  But  her  in- 
quiring pupil  did  not  feel  much  enlightened. 

Letty  had  not  the  logic  necessary  to  the  thinking  of  the 
thing  out ;  or  to  the  discovery  that,  like  most  social  difficulties, 
hers  was  merely  one  of  the  upper  strata  of  a  question  whose 
foundation  lies  far  too  deep  for  what  is  called  Society  to  per- 
ceive its  very  existence.  And  hence  it  is  no  wonder  that  Soci- 
ety, abetted  by  the  Church,  should  go  on  from  generation  to 
generation  talking  murderous  platitudes  about  it. 

But,  although  such  was  her  reasoning  beforehand,  heart  had 
so  far  overcome  habit  and  prejudice  with  Mrs.  Wardour,  that, 
convinced  on  the  first  interview  of  the  high  tone  and  good  in- 
fluence of  Mary,  she  had  gradually  come  to  put  herself  in  the 
way  of  seeing  her  as  often  as  she  came,  ostensibly  to  herself 
that  she  might  prevent  any  deterioration  of  intercourse  ;  and 
although  she  always,  on  these  occasions,  played  the  grand  lady, 
with  a  stateliness  that  seemed  to  say,  "Because  of  your  indi- 
vidual worth,  I  condescend,  and  make  an  exception,  but  you 
must  not  imagine  I  receive  your  class  at  Thornwick*"  she  had 


28  MARY  MARSTON. 

almost  entirely  ceased  making  remarks  upon  the  said  class  in 
Letty's  hearing. 

On  her  part,  Letty  had  by  this  time  grown  so  intimate  with 
Mary  as  to  open  with  her  the  question  upon  which  her  aunt 
had  given  her  so  little  satisfaction  ;  and  this  same  Sunday  af- 
ternoon, as  they  sat  in  the  arbor  at  the  end  of  the  long  yew 
hedge  in  the  old  garden,  it  had  come  up  again  between  them  ; 
for,  set  thinking  by  Letty's  bewilderment,  Mary  had  gone  on 
thinking,  and  had  at  length  laid  hold  of  the  matter,  at  least 
by  the  end  that  belonged  to  her. 

"I  can  not  consent,  Letty,"  she  said,  "to  trouble  my  mind 
about  it  as  you  do.  I  can  not  afford  it.  Society  is  neither  my 
master  nor  my  servant,  neither  my  father  nor  my  sister  ;  and 
so  long  as  she  does  not  bar  my  way  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven, 
which  is  the  only  society  worth  getting  into,  I  feel  no  right  to 
complain  of  how  she  treats  me.  I  have  no  claim  on  her  ;  I  do 
not  acknowledge  her  laws — hardly  her  existence,  and  she  has 
no  authority  over  me.  Why  should  she,  how  could  she,  con- 
stituted as  she  is,  receive  such  as  me  ?  The  moment  she  did 
so,  she  would  cease  to  be  what  she  is  ;  and,  if  all  be  true  that 
one  hears  of  her,  she  does  me  a  kindness  in  excluding  me. 
What  can  it  matter  to  me,  Letty,  whether  they  call  me  a  lady 
or  not,  so  long  as  Jesus  says  Daughter  to  me  ?  It  reminds  me 
of  what  I  heard  my  father  say  once  to  Mr.  Turnbull,  when  he 
had  been  protesting  that  none  but  church-people  ought  to  be 
buried  in  the  churchyards.  '  I  don't  care  a  straw  about  it,  Mr. 
Turnbull,'  he  said.  '  The  Master  was  buried  in  a  garden.' — 
*  Ah,  but  you  see  things  are  different  now,'  said  Mr.  Turnbull. 
— *  I  don't  hang  by  things,  but  by  my  Master.  It  is  enough 
for  the  disciple  that  he  should  be  as  his  Master,'  said  my  father. 
— '  Besides,  you  don't  think  it  of  any  real  consequence  your- 
self, or  you  would  never  want  to  keep  your  brothers  and  sisters 
out  of  such  nice  quiet  places  ! ' — Mr.  Turnbull  gave  his  kind  of 
grunt,  and  said  no  more." 

After  passing  Mary,  Mr.  Wardour  did  not  go  very  far  be- 
fore he  began  to  slacken  his  pace  ;  a  moment  or  two  more  and 
he  suddenly  wheeled  round,  and  began  to  walk  back  toward 
Thornwick.    Two  things  had  combined  to  produce  this  change 


TEE  ARBOR  AT  THORNWICK.  29 

of  purpose — the  first,  the  state  of  his  boots,  which,  beginning 
to  dry  in  the  sun  and  wind  as  he  walked,  grew  more  and  more 
hideous  at  the  end  of  his  new  gray  trousers ;  the  other,  the 
occurring  suspicion  that  the  girl  must  be  Letty's  new  shop- 
keeping  friend,  Miss  Mafston,  on  her  way  to  visit  her.  What 
a  sweet,  simple  young  woman  she  was  !  he  thought ;  and 
straightway  began  to  argue  with  himself  that,  as  his  boots  were 
in  such  evil  plight,  it  would  be  more  pleasant  to  spend  the 
evening  with  Letty  and  her  friend,  than  to  hold  on  his  way  to 
his  own  friend's,  and  spend  the  evening  smoking  and  lounging 
about  the  stable,  or  hearing  his  sister  play  polkas  and  mazurkas 
all  the  still  Sunday  twilight. 

Mary  had,  of  course,  upon  her  arrival,  narrated  her  small 
adventure,  and  the  conversation  had  again  turned  upon  God- 
frey just  as  he  was  nearing  the  house. 

"How  handsome  your  cousin  is!"  said  Mary,  with  the 
simplicity  natural  to  her. 

"Do  you  think  so  ?  "  returned  Letty. 

"  Don't  you  think  so  ?"  rejoined  Mary. 

"I  have  never  thought  about  it,"  answered  Letty. 

"  He  looks  so  manly,  and  has  such  a  straightforward  way 
with  him  ! "  said  Mary. 

"  What  one  sees  every  day,  she  may  feel  in  a  sort  of  take- 
for-granted  way,  without  thinking  about  it,"  said  Letty.  "  But, 
to  tell  the  truth,  I  should  feel  it  as  impertinent  of  me  to  criti- 
cise Cousin  Godfrey's  person  as  to  pass  an  opinion  on  one  of 
the  books  he  reads.  I  can  not  express  the  reverence  I  have  for 
Cousin  Godfrey." 

"I  don't  wonder,"  replied  Mary.  "There  is  that  about 
him  one  could  trust." 

"There  is  that  about  him,"  returned  Letty,  "makes  me 
afraid  of  him — I  can  not  tell  why.  And  yet,  though  every- 
body, even  his  mother,  is  as  anxious  to  please  him  as  if  he  were 
an  emperor,  he  is  the  easiest  person  to  please  in  the  whole 
house.  Not  that  he  tells  you  he  is  pleased  ;  he  only  smiles ; 
but  that  is  quite  enough." 

"  But  I  suppose  he  talks  to  you  sometimes  ?  "  said  Mary. 

"Oh,  yes — now.     He  used  not ;  but  I  think  he  does  now 


30  MARY  MARSTOK 

more  than  to  anybody  else.  It  was  a  long  time  before  he  began, 
though.  Now  he  is  always  giving  me  something  to  read.  I 
wish  he  wouldn't ;  it  frightens  me  dreadfully.  He  always  ques- 
tions me,  to  know  whether  I  understand  what  I  read." 

Letty  ended  with  a  little  cry.  Through  the  one  narrow 
gap  in  the  yew  hedge,  near  to  the  arbor,  Godfrey  had  entered 
the  walk,  and  was  coming  toward  them. 

He  was  a  well-made  man,  thirty  years  of  age,  rather  tall, 
sun-tanned,  and  bearded,  with  wavy  brown  hair,  and  gentle 
approach.  His  features  were  not  regular,  but  that  is  of  little 
consequence  where  there  is  unity.  His  face  indicated  faculty 
and  feeling,  and  these  was  much  good  nature,  shadowed  with 
memorial  suffering,  in  the  eyes  which  shone  so  blue  out  of  the 
brown. 

Mary  rose  respectfully  as  he  drew  near. 

"What  treason  were  you  talking,  Letty,  that  you  were  so 
startled  at  sight  of  me?"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "You  were 
complaining  of  me  as  a  hard  master,  were  you  not  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  Cousin  Godfrey  ! "  answered  Letty  energeti- 
cally, not  without  tremor,  and  coloring  as  she  spoke.  "  I  was 
only  saying  I  could  not  help  being  frightened  when  you  asked 
me  questions  about  what  I  had  been  reading.  I  am  so  stupid, 
you  know  ! " 

"Pardon  me,  Letty,"  returned  her  cousin,  "I  know  no- 
thing of  the  sort.  Allow  me  to  say  you  are  very  far  from  stu- 
pid. Nobody  can  understand  everything  at  first  sight.  But 
you  have  not  introduced  me  to  your  friend." 

Letty  bashfully  murmured  the  names  of  the  two. 

"I  guessed  as  much,"  said  Wardour.  "Pray  sit  down, 
Miss  Marston.  For  the  sake  of  your  dresses,  I  will  go  and 
change  my  boots.     May  I  come  and  join  you  after  ?  " 

"Please  do,  Cousin  Godfrey  ;  and  bring  something  to  read 
to  us,"  said  Letty,  who  wanted  her  friend  to  admire  her  cousin. 
"It's  Sunday,  you  know." 

"  Why  you  should  be  afraid  of  him,  I  can't  think,"  said 
Mary,  when  his  retreating  steps  had  ceased  to  sound  on  the 
gravel.     "  He  is  delightful ! " 

"I  don't  like  to  look  stupid,"  said  Letty. 


TEE  ARBOR  AT  TEORNWIGK.  31 

"  I  shouldn't  mind  how  stupid  I  looked  so  long  as  I  was 
learning,"  returned  Mary.  "I  wonder  you  never  told  me 
about  him ! " 

"I  couldn't  talk  about  Cousin  Godfrey,"  said  Letty  ;  and  a 
pause  followed. 

"How  good  of  him  to  come  to  us  again!"  said  Mary. 
"  What  will  he  read  to  us  ?  " 

"Most  likely  something  out  of  a  book  you  never  heard  of 
before,  and  can't  remember  the  name  of  when  you  have  heard 
it — at  least  that's  the  way  with  me.  I  wonder  if  he  will  talk 
to  you,  Mary  ?  I  should  like  to  hear  how  Cousin  Godfrey  talks 
to  girls." 

"  Why,  you  know  how  he  talks  to  you,"  said  Mary. 

"  Oh,  but  I  am  only  Cousin  Letty  !  He  can  talk  anyhow 
to  me." 

"By  your  own  account  he  talks  to  you  in  the  best  possible 
way." 

"Yes  ;  I  dare  say  ;  but — " 

"But  what?" 

"I  can't  help  wishing  sometimes  he  would  talk  a  little 
nonsense.  It  would  be  such  a  relief.  I  am  sure  I  should 
understand  better  if  he  would.  I  shouldn't  be  so  frightened 
at  him  then." 

"  The  way  I  generally  hear  gentlemen  talk  to  girls  makes 
me  ashamed — makes  me  feel  as  if  I  must  ask,  '  Is  it  that  you 
are  a  fool,  or  that  you  take  that  girl  for  one  ? '  They  never 
talk  so  to  me." 

Letty  sat  pulling  a  jonquil  to  pieces.  She  looked  up.  Her 
eyes  were  full  of  thought,  but  she  paused  a  long  time  before 
she  spoke,  and,  when  she  did,  it  was  only  to  say  : 

"  I  fear,  Mary,  I  should  take  any  man  for  a  fool  who  took 
me  for  anything  else." 

Letty  was  a  rather  small  and  rather  freckled  girl,  with 
the  daintiest  of  rounded  figures,  a  good  forehead,  and  fine 
clear  brown  eyes.  Her  mouth  was  not  pretty,  except  when 
she  smiled — and  she  did  not  smile  often.  When  she  did,  it 
was  not  unfrequently  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  then  she 
looked  lovely.     In  her  manner  there  was  an  indescribably 


32  MARY  MABSTOm 

taking  charm,  of  which  it  is  not  easy  to  give  an  impression  ; 
hut  I  think  it  sprang  from  a  constitutional  humility,  partly 
ruined  into  a  painful  and  haunting  sense  of  inferiority,  for 
which  she  imagined  herself  to  blame.  Hence  there  dwelt  in 
her  eyes  an  appeal  which  few  hearts  could  resist.  When  they 
met  another's,  they  seemed  to  say  :  "I  am  nobody ;  but  you 
need  not  kill  me  ;  I  am  not  pretending  to  be  anybody.  I  will 
try  to  do  what  you  want,  but  I  am  not  clever.  Only  I  am 
sorry  for  it.  Be  gentle  with  me."  To  Godfrey,  at  least,  her 
eyes  spoke  thus. 

In  ten  minutes  or'so  he  reappeared,  far  at  the  other  end  of 
the  yew- walk,  approaching  slowly,  with  a  book,  in  which  he 
seemed  thoughtfully  searching  as  he  came.  When  they  saw 
him  the  girls  instinctively  moved  farther  from  each  other, 
making  large  room  for  him  between  them.,  and  when  he  came 
up  he  silently  took  the  place  thus  silently  assigned  him. 

"I  am  going  to  try  your  brains  now,  Letty,"  he  said,  and 
tapped  the  book  with  a  finger. 

"Oh,  please  don't!"  pleaded  Letty,  as  if  he  had  been 
threatening  her  with  a  small  amputation,  or  the  loss  of  a  front 
tooth. 

"Yes,"  he  persisted;  "and  not  your  brains  only,  Letty, 
but  your  heart,  and  all  that  is  in  you. " 

At  this  even  Mary  could  not  help  feeling  a  little  frightened  ; 
and  she  was  glad  there  was  no  occasion  for  her  to  speak. 

With  just  a  word  of  introduction,  Godfrey  read  Carlyle's 
translation  of  that  finest  of  Jean  Paul's  dreams  in  which  he 
sets  forth  the  condition  of  a  godless  universe  all  at  once  awak- 
ened to  the  knowledge  of  the  causelessness  of  its  own  existence. 
Slowly,  with  due  inflection  and  emphasis — slowly,  but  without 
pause  for  thought  or  explanation — he  read  to  the  end,  ceased 
suddenly,  and  lifted  his  eyes. 

"There,  Letty,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  think  of  that? 
There's  a  bit  of  Sunday  reading  for  you  !  " 

Letty  was  looking  altogether  perplexed,  and  not  a  little 
frightened. 

"I  don't  understand  a  word  of  it,"  she  answered,  gulping 
back  her  tears. 


THE  ARBOR  AT  THORN  WICK  33 

He  glanced  at  Mary.  She  was  white  as  death,  her  lips 
quivered,  and  from  her  eyes  shot  a  keen  light  that  seemed  to 
lacerate  their  blue. 

"It  is  terrible!"  she  said.  "I  never  read  anything  like 
that." 

"  There  is  nothing  like  it,"  he  answered. 

"But  the  author  is  a  Unitarian,  is  he  not  ?"  remarked 
Mary — for  she  heard  plenty  of  theology,  if  not  much  Chris- 
tianity, in  her  chapel." 

Godfrey  looked  at  her,  then  at  the  book  for  a  moment. 

"  That  may  merely  seem,  from  the  necessity  of  the  supposi- 
tion," he  answered ;  and  read  again  : 

"  c  Now  sank  from  aloft  a  noble,  high  Form,  with  a  look  of 
uneffaceable  sorrow,  down  to  the  Altar,  and  all  the  Dead  cried 
out,  "Christ!  is  there  no  God?"  He  answered,  "There  is 
none  ! "  The  whole  Shadow  of  each  then  shuddered,  not  the 
breast  alone ;  and  one  after  the  other  all,  in  this  shuddering, 
shook  into  pieces.' — You  see,"  he  went  on,  "that  if  there  be 
no  God,  Christ  can  only  be  the  first  of  men." 

"I  understand,"  said  Mary. 

"Do  you  really  then,  Mary  ?  "  said  Letty,  looking  at  her 
with  wondering  admiration. 

"  I  only  meant,"  answered  Mary — "but,"  she  went  on,  in- 
terrupting herself,  "  I  do  think  I  understand  it  a  little.  If 
Mr.  Wardour  would  be  kind  enough  to  read  it  through  again  ! " 

"  With  much  pleasure,"  answered  Godfrey,  casting  on  her 
a  glance  of  pleased  surprise. 

The  second  reading  affected  Mary  more  than  the  first — be- 
cause, of  course,  she  took  in  more.  And  this  time  a  glimmer 
of  meaning  broke  on  the  slower  mind  of  Letty  :  as  her  cousin 
read  the  passage,  "Oh,  then  came,  fearful  for  the  heart,  the 
dead  Children  who  had  been  awakened  in  the  Churchyard,  into 
the  temple,  and  cast  themselves  before  the  high  Form  on  the 
Altar,  and  said,  'Jesus,  have  we  no  Father?'  And  he  an- 
swered, with  streaming  tears  :  '  We  are  all  orphans,  I  and  you ; 
we  are  without  Father  ! '  " — at  this  point  Letty  gave  her  little 
cry,  then  bit  her  lip,  as  if  she  had  said  something  wrong. 

All  the  time  a  great  bee  kept  buzzing  in  and  out  of  the 


34  MARY  MARSTOK 

arbor,  and  Mary  vaguely  wondered  how  it  could  be  so  care- 
less. 

"I  can't  be  dead  stupid  after  all,  Cousin  Godfrey,"  said 
Letty,  with  broken  voice,  when  once  more  he  ceased,  and,  as 
she  spoke,  she  pressed  her  hand  on  her  heart,  "for  something 
kept  going  through  and  through  me  ;  but  I  can  not  say  yet  I 
understand  it. — If  you  will  lend  me  the  book,"  she  continued, 
"  I  will  read  it  over  again  before  I  go  to  bed." 

He  shut  the  volume,  handed  it  to  her,  and  began  to  talk 
about  something  else. 

Mary  rose  to  go. 

"You  will  take  tea  with  us,  I  hope,  Miss  Marston,"  said 
Godfrey. 

But  Mary  would  not.  What  she  had  heard  was  working  in 
her  mind  with  a  powerful  fermentation,  and  she  longed  to  be 
alone.  In  the  fields,  as  she  walked,  she  would  come  to  an  under- 
standing with  herself. 

She  knew  almost  nothing  of  the  higher  literature,  and  felt 
like  a  dreamer  who,  in  the  midst  of  a  well-known  and  ordinary 
landscape,  comes  without  warning  upon  the  mighty  cone  of  a 
mountain,  or  the  breaking  waters  of  a  boundless  ocean. 

"  If  one  could  but  get  hold  of  such  things,  what  a  glorious 
life  it  would  be  ! "  she  thought.  She  had  looked  into  a  world 
beyond  the  present,  and  already  in  the  present  all  things  were 
new.  The  sun  set  as  she  had  never  seen  him  set  before  ;  it  was 
only  in  gray  and  gold,  with  scarce  a  touch  of  purple  and  rose  ; 
the  wind  visited  her  cheek  like  a  living  thing,  and  loved  her  ; 
the  skylarks  had  more  than  reason  in  their  jubilation.  For  the 
first  time  she  heard  the  full  chord  of  intellectual  and  emotional 
delight.  What  a  place  her  chamber  would  be,  if  she  could 
there  read  such  things  !  How  easy  would  it  be  then  to  bear  the 
troubles  of  the  hour,  the  vulgar  humor  of  Mr.  Turnbull,  and 
the  tiresome  attentions  of  George  !  Would  Mr.  Wardour  lend 
her  the  book  ?  Had  he  other  books  as  good  ?  Were  there 
many  books  to  make  one's  heart  go  as  that  one  did  ?  She 
would  save  every  penny  to  buy  such  books,  if  indeed  such  trea- 
sures were  within  her  reach  !  Under  the  enchantment  of  her 
first  literary  joy,  she  walked  home  like  one  intoxicated  with 


GODFREY  WARD  OUR.  35 

opium — a  being  possessed  for  the  time  with  the  awful  imagi- 
nation of  a  grander  soul,  and  reveling  in  the  presence  of  her 
loftier  kin. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

GODFEET     WAKDOUE. 

The  property  of  which  Thornwick  once  formed  a  part  was 
then  large  and  important ;  but  it  had,  by  not  very  slow  de- 
grees, generation  following  generation  of  unthrift,  dwindled 
and  shrunk  and  shriveled,  until'  at  last  it  threatened  to  disap- 
pear from  the  family  altogether,  like  a  spark  upon  burnt  paper. 
Then  came  one  into  possession  who  had  some  element  of  salva- 
tion in  him ;  Godfrey's  father  not  only  held  the  poor  remnant 
together,  but,  unable  to  add  to  it,  improved  it  so  greatly  that 
at  length,  in  the  midst  of  the  large  properties  around,  it  resem- 
bled the  diamond  that  hearts  a  disk  of  inferior  stones.  Doubt- 
less, could  he  have  used  his  wife's  money,  he  would  have  spent 
it  on  land  ;  but  it  was  under  trustees  for  herself  and  her  chil- 
dren, and  indeed  would  not  have  gone  far  in  the  purchase 
of  English  soil. 

Considerably  advanced  in  years  before  he  thought  of  marry- 
ing, he  died  while  Godfrey,  whom  he  intended  bringing  up  to 
a  profession,  was  yet  a  child ;  and  his  widow,  carrying  out  his 
intention,  had  educated  the  boy  with  a  view  to  the  law.  God- 
frey, however,  had  positively  declined  entering  on  the  studies 
special  to  a  career  he  detested  ;  nor  was  it  difficult  to  reconcile 
his  mother  to  the  enforced  change  of  idea,  when  she  found  that 
his  sole  desire  was  to  settle  down  with  her,  and  manage  the  two 
hundred  acres  his  father  had  left  him.  He  took  his  place  in 
the  county,  therefore,  as  a  yeoman-farmer — none  the  less  a 
gentleman  by  descent,  character,  and  education.  But  while  in 
genuine  culture  and  refinement  the  superior  of  all  the  landed 
proprietors  in  the  neighborhood,  and  knowing  it,  he  was  the 
superior  of  most  of  them  in  this  also,  that  he  counted  it  no 


36  MART  MARSTOK 

derogation  from  the  dignity  he  valued  to  put  his  hands  upon 
occasion  to  any  piece  of  work  required  about  the  place. 

His  nature  was  too  large,  however,  and  its  needs  therefore 
too  many,  to  allow  of  his  spending  his  energies  on  the  proper- 
ty ;  and  he  did  not  brood  over  such  things  as,  so  soon  as  they 
become  cares,  become  despicable.  How  much  time  is  wasted 
in  what  is  called  thought,  but  is  merely  care — an  anxious  idling 
over  the  fancied  probabilities  of  result !  Of  this  fault,  I  say, 
Godfrey  was  not  guilty — more,  however,  I  must  confess,  from 
healthful  drawings  in  other  directions,  than  from  philosophy 
or  wisdom  :  he  was  a  reader — not  in  the  sense  of  a  man  who 
derives  intensest  pleasure  from  the  absorption  of  intellectual 
pabulum — one  not  necessarily  so  superior  as  some  imagine  to 
the  gourmet,  or  even  the  gourmand:  in  his  reading  Godfrey 
nourished  certain  of  the  higher  tendencies  of  his  nature — read 
with  a  constant  reference  to  his  own  views  of  life,  and  the  con- 
firmation, change,  or  enlargement  of  his  theories  of  the  same  ; 
but  neither  did  he  read  with  the  highest  aim  of  all — the  en- 
largement of  reverence,  obedience,  and  faith  ;  for  he  had  never 
turned  his  face  full  in  the  direction  of  infinite  growth — the 
primal  end  of  a  man's  being,  who  is  that  he  may  return  to  the 
Father,  gathering  his  truth  as  he  goes.  Yet  by  the  simple  in- 
stincts of  a  soul  undebased  by  self-indulgence  or  low  pursuits, 
he  was  drawn  ever  toward  things  lofty  and  good  ;  and  life  went 
calmly  on,  bearing  Godfrey  Wardour  toward .  middle  age,  un- 
ruffled either  by  anxiety  or  ambition. 

To  the  forecasting  affection  of  a  mother,  the  hour  when 
she  must  yield  the  first  place  both  in  her  son's  regards  and  in 
the  house-affairs  Could  not  but  have  often  presented  itself,  in 
doubt  and  pain — perhaps  dread.  Only  as  year  after  year  passed 
and  Godfrey  revealed  no  tendency  toward  marriage,  her  anxiety 
changed  sides,  and  she  began  to  fear  lest  with  Godfrey  the  an- 
cient family  should  come  to  an  end.  As  yet,  however,  finding 
no  response  to  covert  suggestion,  she  had  not  ventured  to  speak 
openly  to  him  on  the  subject.  All  the  time,  I  must  add,  she 
had  never  thought  of  Letty  either  as  thwarting  or  furthering 
her  desires,  for  in  truth  she  felt  toward  her  as  one  on  whom 
Godfrey  could  never  condescend  to  look,  save  with  the  kind- 


GODFREY  WARDOUR.  37 

ness  suitable  for  one  immeasurably  below  him.  As  to  what 
might  pass  in  Letty's  mind.  Mrs.  Wardour  had  neither  curios- 
ity nor  care  :  else  she  might  possibly  have  been  more  consider- 
ate than  to  fall  into  the  habit  of  talking  to  her  in  such  swell- 
ing words  of  maternal  pride  that,  even  if  she  had  not  admired 
him  of  herself,  Letty  could  hardly  escape  coming  to  regard 
her  cousin  Godfrey  as  the  very  first  of  men. 

It  added  force  to  the  veneration  of  both  mother  and  cousin 
— for  it  was  nothing  less  than  veneration  in  either — that  there 
was  about  Godfrey  an  air  of  the  inexplicable,  or  at  least  the 
unknown,  and  therefore  mysterious.  This  the  elder  woman, 
not  without  many  a  pang  at  her  exclusion  from  his  confidence, 
attributed,  and  correctly,  to  some  passage  in  his  life  at  the 
university ;  to  the  younger  it  appeared  only  as  greatness  self- 
veiled  from  the  ordinary  world  :  to  such  as  she,  could  be  vouch- 
safed only  an  occasional  peep  into  the  gulf  of  his  knowledge, 
the  grandeur  of  his  intellect,  and  the  imperturbability  of  his 
courage. 

The  passage  in  Godfrey's  life  to  which  I  have  referred  as 
vaguely  suspected  by  his  mother,  I  need  not  present  in  more 
than  merest  outline  :  it  belongs  to  my  history  only  as  a  compo- 
nent part  of  the  soil  whence  it  springs,  and  as  in  some  measure 
necessary  to  the  understanding  of  Godfrey's  character.  In  the 
last  year  of  his  college  life  he  had  formed  an  attachment,  the 
precise  nature  of  which  I  do  not  know.  What  I  do  know  is, 
that  the  bonds  of  it  were  rudely  broken,  and  of  the  story  no- 
thing remained  but  disappointment  and  pain,  doubt  and  dis- 
trust. Godfrey  had  most  likely  cherished  an  overweening  no- 
tion of  the  relative  value  of  the  love  he  gave  ;  but  being  his,  I 
am  certain  it  was  genuine — by  that,  I  mean  a  love  with  no 
small  element  of  the  everlasting  in  it.  The  woman  who  can 
cast  such  a  love  from  her  is  not  likely  to  meet  with  such  an- 
other.    But  with  this  one  I  have  nothing  to  do. 

It  had  been  well  if  he  had  been  left  with  only  a  wounded 
heart,  but  in  that  heart  lay  wounded  pride.  He  hid  it  care- 
fully, and  the  keener  in  consequence  grew  the  sensitiveness, 
almost  feminine,  which  no  stranger  could  have  suspected 
beneath  the  manner  he  wore.     Under  that  bronzed  counte- 


38  MART  MARSTOK 

nance,  with  its  firm-set  mouth  and  powerful  jaw — below  that 
clear  blue  eye,  and  that  upright  easy  carriage,  lay  a  faithful 
heart  haunted  by  a  sense  of  wrong  :  he  who  is  not  perfect  in 
forgiveness  must  be  haunted  thus  ;  he  only  is  free  whose  love 
for  the  human  is  so  strong  that  he  can  pardon  the  individual 
sin  ;  he  alone  can  pray  the  prayer,  "Forgive  us  our  trespasses," 
out  of  a  full  heart.  Forgiveness  is  the  only  cure  of  wrong. 
And  hand  in  hand  with  Sense-of -injury  walks  ever  the  weak 
sister-demon  Self-pity,  so  dear,  so  sweet  to  many — both  of 
them  the  children  of  Philautos,  not  of  Agape.  But  there  was 
no  hate,  no  revenge,  in  Godfrey,  and,  I  repeat,  his  weakness 
he  kept  concealed.  It  must  have  been  in  his  eyes,  but  eyes  are 
hard  to  read.  For  the  rest,  his  was  a  strong  poetic  nature — a 
nature  which  half  unconsciously  turned  ever  toward  the  best, 
away  from  the  mean  judgments  of  common  men,  and  with  posi- 
tive loathing  from  the  ways  of  worldly  women.  Never  was  peace 
endangered  between  his  mother  and  him,  except  when  she 
chanced  to  make  use  of  some  evil  maxim  which  she  thought  expe- 
rience had  taught  her,  and  the  look  her  son  cast  upon  her  stung 
her  to  the  heart,  making  her  for  a  moment  feel  as  if  she  had 
sinned  what  the  theologians  call  the  unpardonable  sin.  When 
he  rose  and  walked  from  the  room  without  a  word,  she  would 
feel  as  if  abandoned  to  her  wickedness,  and  be  miserable  until 
she  saw  him  again.  Something  like  a  spring-cleaning  would 
begin  and  go  on  in  her  for  some  time  after,  and  her  eyes  would 
every  now  and  then  steal  toward  her  judge  with  a  glance  of 
awe  and  fearful  apology.  But,  however  correct  Godfrey  might 
be  in  his  judgment  of  the  worldly,  that  judgment  was  less  in- 
spired by  the  harmonies  of  the  universe  than  by  the  discords 
that  had  jarred  his  being  and  the  poisonous  shocks  he  had 
received  in  the  encounter  of  the  noble  with  the  ignoble.  There 
was  yet  in  him  a  profound  need  of  redemption  into  the  love  of 
the  truth  for  the  truth's  sake.  He  had  the  fault  of  thinking 
too  well  of  himself — which  who  has  not  who  thinks  of  himself 
at  all,  apart  from  his  relation  to  the  holy  force  of  life,  within 
yet  beyond  him  ?  It  was  the  almost  unconscious,  assuredly  the 
undetected,  self -approbation  of  the  ordinarily  righteous  man, 
the  defect  of  whose  righteousness  makes  him  regard  himself  as 


GODFREY  AND  LETTT.  39 

upright,  but  the  virtue  of  whose  uprightness  will  at  length 
disclose  to  his  astonished  view  how  immeasurably  short  of  rec- 
titude he  comes.  At  the  age  of  thirty,  Godfrey  Wardour  had 
not  yet  become  so  displeased  with  himself  as  to  turn  self -roused 
energy  upon  betterment ;  and  until  then  all  growth  must  be  of 
doubtful  result.  The  point  on  which  the  swift-revolving  top 
of  his  thinking  and  feeling  turned  was  as  yet  his  present  con- 
scious self,  as  a  thing  that  was  and  would  be,  not  as  a  thing 
that  had  to  become.  Naturally  the  pivot  had  worn  a  socket, 
and  such  socket  is  sure  to  be  a  sore.  His  friends  notwith- 
standing gave  him  credit  for  great  imperturbability ;  but  in 
such  willfully  undemonstrative  men  the  evil  burrows  the  more 
insidiously  that  it  is  masked  by  a  constrained  exterior. 


CHAPTER  V. 

GODFEET   AND   LETTY. 

Godfeey,  being  an  Englishman,  and  with  land  of  his  own, 
could  not  fail  to  be  fond  of  horses.  For  his  own  use  he  kept 
two — an  indulgence  disproportioned  to  his  establishment ;  for, 
although  precise  in  his  tastes  as  to  equine  toilet,  he  did  not 
feel  justified  in  the  keeping  of  a  groom  for  their  use  only. 
Hence  it  came  that,  now  and  then,  strap  and  steel,  as  well  as 
hide  and  hoof,  would  get  partially  neglected  ;  and  his  habits 
in  the  use  of  his  horses  being  fitful — sometimes,  it  would  be 
midnight  even,  when  he  scoured  from  his  home,  seeking  the 
comfort  of  desert  as  well  as  solitary  places — it  is  not  surprising 
if  at  times,  going  to  the  stable  to  saddle  one,  he  should  find  its 
gear  not  in  the  spick-and-span  condition  alone  to  his  mind. 
It  might  then  well  happen  there  was  no  one  near  to  help  him, 
and  there  be  nothing  for  it  but  to  put  his  own  hands  to  the 
work  :  he  was  too  just  to  rouse  one  who  might  be  nowise 
to  blame,  or  send  a  maid  to  fetch  him  from  field  or  barn, 
where  he  might  be  more  importantly  engaged. 

One  night,  meaning  to  start  for  a  long  ride  early  in  the 


40  MARY  MARSTON. 

morning,  lie  had  gone  to  the  stable  to  see  how  things  were ; 
and,  soon  after,  it  happened  that  Letty,  attending  to  some  duty 
before  going  to  bed,  caught  sight  of  him  cleaning  his  stir- 
rups :  from  that  moment  she  took  upon  herself  the  silent  and 
unsuspected  supervision  of  the  harness-room,  where,  when  she 
found  any  part  of  the  riding-equipments  neglected,  she  would 
draw  a  pair  of  housemaid's  gloves  on  her  pretty  hands,  and  pol- 
ish away  like  a  horse-boy. 

Godfrey  had  begun  to  remark  how  long  it  was  since  he  had 
found  anything  unfit,  and  to  wonder  at  the  improvement  some- 
where in  the  establishment,  when,  going  hastily  one  morning, 
some  months  before  the  date  of  my  narrative,  into  the  harness- 
room  to  get  a  saddle,  he  came  upon  Letty,  who  had  imagined 
him  afield  with  the  men  :  she  was  energetic  upon  a  stirrup 
with  a  chain-polisher.  He  started  back  in  amazement,  but  she 
only  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"  I  shall  have  done  in  a  moment,  Cousin  Godfrey,"  she  said, 
and  polished  away  harder  than  before. 

"But,  Letty!  I  can't  allow  you  to  do  things  like  that. 
What  on  earth  put  it  in  your  head  ?  Work  like  that  is  only 
for  horny  hands." 

"  Your  hands  ain't  horny,  Cousin  Godfrey.  They  may  be 
a  little  harder  than  mine — they  wouldn't  be  much  good  if  they 
weren't — but  they're  no  fitter  by  nature  to  clean  stirrups.  Is 
it  for  me  to  sit  with  mine  in  my  lap,  and  yours  at  this  ?  I 
know  better." 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  clean  my  own  harness,  Letty,  if  I  like  ?  " 
said  Godfrey,  who  could  not  help  feeling  pleased  as  well  as  an- 
noyed ;  in  this  one  moment  Letty  had  come  miles  nearer  him. 

"  Oh,  surely  !  if  you  like,  Cousin  Godfrey,"  she  answered  ; 
"but  do  you  like  ?" 

"Better  than  to  see  you  doing  it." 

"  But  not  better  than  I  like  to  do  it ;  that  I  am  sure  of. 
It  is  hands  that  write  poetry  that  are  not  fit  for  work  like  this." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  write  poetry  ?  "  asked  Godfrey,  dis- 
pleased, for  she  touched  here  a  sensitive  spot. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  angry  with  me  !  "  she  said,  letting  the  stir- 
rup fall  on  the  floor,  and  clasping  her  great  wash-leather  gloves 


GODFREY  AND  LETT7.  41 

together  ;  "  I  couldn't  help  seeing  it  was  poetry,  for  it  lay  on 
the  table  when  I  went  to  do  your  room." 

"  Do  my  room,  Letty  !     Does  my  mother —  ?  " 

"She  doesn't  want  to  make  a  fine  lady  of  me,  and  I 
shouldn't  like  it  if  she  did.  I  have  no  head,  but  I  have  pretty 
good  hands.  Of  course,  Cousin  Godfrey,  I  didn't  read  a  word 
of  the  poetry.  I  daredn't  do  that,  however  much  I  might  have 
wished." 

A  childlike  simplicity  looked  out  of  the  clear  eyes  and 
sounded  in  the  swift  words  of  the  maiden  ;  and,  had  Godfrey's 
heart  been  as  hard  as  the  stirrup  she  had  dropped,  it  could  not 
but  be  touched  by  her  devotion.  He  was  at  the  same  time  not 
a  little  puzzled  how  to  carry  himself.  Letty  had  picked  up 
the  stirrup,  and  was  again  hard  at  work  with  it ;  to  take  it 
from  her,  and  turn  her  out  of  the  saddle-room,  would  scarcely 
be  a  proper  way  of  thanking  her,  scarcely  an  adequate  mode 
of  revealing  his  estimate  of  the  condescension  of  her  ladyhood. 
For,  although  Letty  did  make  beds  and  chose  to  clean  harness, 
Godfrey  was  gentleman  enough  not  to  think  her  less  of  a  lady — 
for  the  moment  at  least — because  of  such  doings  :  I  will  not 
say  he  had  got  so  far  on  in  the  great  doctrine  concerning  the 
washing  of  hands  as  to  be  able  to  think  her  more  of  a  lady  for 
thus  cleaning  his  stirrups.  But  he  did  see  that  to  set  the 
fire-engine  of  indignant  respect  for  womankind  playing  on  the 
individual  woman  was  not  the  part  of  the  man  to  whose  ser- 
vice she  was  humbling  herself.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her  bent 
head,  and  said  : 

"I  ought  to  be  a  knight  of  the  old  times,  Letty,  to  have  a 
lady  serve  me  so." 

"  You're  just  as  good,  Cousin  Godfrey,"  she  rejoined,  rub- 
bing away. 

He  turned  from  her,  and  left  her  at  her  work. 

He  had  taken  no  real  notice  of  the  girl  before — had  felt 
next  to  no  interest  in  her.  Neither  did  he  feel  much  now,  save 
as  owing  her  something  beyond  mere  acknowledgment.  But 
was  there  anything  now  he  could  do  for  her — anything  in  her 
he  could  help  ?  He  did  not  know.  "What  she  really  was,  he 
could  not  tell.     She  was  a  fresh,  bright  girl — that  he  seemed 


42  MARY  MARSTOK 

to  have  just  discovered  ;  and,  as  she  sat  polishing  the  stirrup, 
her  hair  shaken  about  her  shoulders,  she  looked  engaging ; 
but  whether  she  was  one  he  could  do  anything  for  that  was 
worth  doing,  was  hardly  the  less  a  question  for  those  discov- 
eries. 

"  There  must  be  something  in  the  girl !  "  he  said  to  himself 
— then  suddenly  reflected  that  he  had  never  seen  a  book  in  her 
hand,  except  her  prayer-book  ;  how  was  he  to  do  anything  for 
a  girl  like  that  ?  For  Godfrey  knew  no  way  of  doing  people 
good  without  the  intervention  of  books.  How  could  he  get 
near  one  that  had  no  taste  for  the  quintessence  of  humanity  ? 
How  was  he  to  offer  her  the  only  help  he  had,  when  she  de- 
sired no  such  help  ?  "But,"  he  continued,  reflecting  further, 
"  she  may  have  thirsted,  may  even  now  be  athirst,  without 
knowing  that  books  are  the  bottles  of  the  water  of  life  ! "  Per- 
haps, if  he  could  make  her  drink  once,  she  would  drink  again. 
The  difficulty  was,  to  find  out  what  sort  of  spiritual  drink 
would  be  most  to  her  taste,  and  would  most  entice  her  to  more. 
There  must  be  some  seeds  lying  cold  and  hard  in  her  uncul- 
tured garden  ;  what  water  would  soonest  make  them  grow  ? 
Not  all  the  waters  of  Damascus  will  turn  mere  sand  sifted  of 
eternal  winds  into  fruitful  soil ;  but  Letty's  soul  could  not  be 
such.  And  then  literature  has  seed  to  sow  as  well  as  water  for 
the  seed  sown.  Letty's  foolish  words  about  the  hands  that 
wrote  poetry  showed  a  shadow  of  respect  for  poetry — except, 
indeed,  the  girl  had  been  but  making  game  of  him,  which  he 
was  far  from  ready  to  believe,  and  for  which,  he  said  to  him- 
self, her  face  was  at  the  time  much  too  earnest,  and  her  hands 
much  too  busy ;  he  must  find  out  whether  she  had  any  in- 
stincts, any  predilections,  in  the  matter  of  poetry  ! 

Thus  pondering,  he  forgot  all  about  his  projected  ride,  and, 
going  up  to  the  study  he  had  contrived  for  himself  in  the  ram- 
bling roof  of  the  ancient  house,  began  looking  along  the  backs 
of  his  books,  in  search  of  some  suggestion  of  how  to  approach 
Letty  ;  his  glance  fell  on  a  beautifully  bound  volume  of  verse 
— a  selection  of  English  lyrics,  made  with  tolerable  judgment — 
which  he  had  bought  to  give,  but  the  very  color  of  which,  every 
time  his  eye  flitting  along  the  book-shelves  caught  it,  threw  a 


GODFREY  AND  LETTY.  43 

faint  sickness  over  his  heart,  preluding  the  memory  of  old  pain 
and  loss  : 

"It  may- as  well  serve  some  one/'  he  said,  and,  taking  it 
down,  carried  it  with  him  to  the  saddle-room. 

Letty  was  not  there,  and  the  perfect  order  of  the  place 
somehow  made  him  feel  she  had  been  gone  some  time.  He 
went  in  search  of  her ;  she  might  be  in  the  dairy. 

That  was  the  very  picture  of  an  old-fashioned  English  dairy 
— green-shadowy,  dark,  dank,  and  cool — floored  with  great  ir- 
regular slabs,  mostly  of  green  serpentine,  polished  into  smooth 
hollows  by  the  feet  of  generations  of  mistresses  and  dairy- 
maids. Its  only  light  came  through  a  small  window  shaded 
with  shrubs  and  ivy,  which  stood  open,  and  let  in  the  scents  of 
bud  and  blossom,  weaving  a  net  of  sweetness  in  the  gloom, 
through  which,  like  a  silver  thread,  shot  the  twittering  song  of 
a  bird,  which  had  inherited  the  gathered  carelessness  and  bliss 
of  a  long  ancestry  in  God's  aviary. 

Godfrey  came  softly  to  the  door,  which  he  found  standing 
ajar,  and  peeped  in.  There  stood  Letty,  warm  and  bright  in 
the  middle  of  the  dusky  coolness.  She  had  changed  her  dress 
since  he  saw  her,  and  now,  in  a  pink-rosebud  print,  with  the 
sleeves  tucked  above  her  elbows,  was  skimming  the  cream  in  a 
great  red-brown  earthen  pan.  He  pushed  the  door  a  little, 
and,  at  its  screech  along  the  uneven  floor,  Letty's  head  turned 
quickly  on  her  lithe  neck,  and  she  saw  Godfrey's  brown  face 
and  kind  blue  eyes  where  she  had  never  seen  them  before.  In 
his  hand  glowed  the  book  :  some  of  the  stronger  light  from 
behind  him  fell  on  it,  and  it  caught  her  eyes. 

"Letty,"  he  said,  "I  have  just  come  upon  this  book  in  my 
library  :  would  you  care  to  have  it  ?  " 

"You  don't  mean  to  keep  for  my  own,  Cousin  Godfrey  ?" 
cried  Letty,  in  sweet,  childish  fashion,  letting  the  skimmer 
dive  like  a  coot  to  the  bottom  of  the  milk-pool,  and  hastily 
wiping  her  hands  in  her  apron.  Her  face  had  flushed  rosy 
with  pleasure,  and  grew  rosier  and  brighter  still  as  she  took 
the  rich  morocco-bound  thing  from  Godfrey's  hand  into  her 
own.  Daintily  she  peeped  within  the  boards,  and  the  gilding 
of  the  leaves  responded  in  light  to  her  smile. 


44:  MARY  MARSTOK 

"Poetry !"  she  cried,  in  a  tone  of  delight.  "Is  it  really 
for  me,  Cousin  Godfrey  ?  Do  you  think  I  shall  be  able  to 
understand  it  ?  " 

"You  can  soon  settle  that  question  for  yourself,"  answered 
Godfrey,  with  a  pleased  smile — for  he  augured  well  from  this 
reception  of  his  gift — and  turned  to  leave  the  dairy. 

"But,  Cousin  Godfrey — please!"  she  called  after  him, 
"  you  don't  give  me  time  to  thank  you." 

"  That  will  do  when  you  are  certain  you  care  for  it,"  he  re- 
turned. 

"  I  care  for  it  very  much  !  "  she  replied. 

"  How  can  you  say  that,  when  you  don't  know  yet  whether 
you  will  understand  it  or  not  ? "  he  rejoined,  and  closed  the 
door. 

Letty  stood  motionless,  the  book  in  her  hand  illuminating 
the  dusk  with  its  gold,  and  warming  its  coolness  with  its  crim- 
son boards  and  silken  linings.  One  poem  after  another  she 
read,  nor  knew  how  the  time  passed,  until  the  voice  of  her 
aunt  in  her  ears  warned  her  to  finish  her  skimming,  and  carry 
the  jug  to  the  pantry.  But  already  Letty  had  taken  a  little 
cream  off  the  book  also,  and  already,  between  the  time  she 
entered  and  the  time  she  left  the  dairy,  had  taken  besides  a 
fresh  start  in  spiritual  growth. 

The  next  day  Godfrey  took  an  opportunity  of  asking  her 
whether  she  had  found  in  the  book  anything  she  liked.  To 
his  disappointment  she  mentioned  one  of  the  few  commonplace 
things  the  collection  contained — a  last-century  production,  dull 
and  respectable,  which,  surely,  but  for  the  glamour  of  some 
pleasant  association,  the  editor  would  never  have  included. 
Happily,  however,  he  bethought  himself  in  time  not  to  tell  her 
the  thing  was  worthless  :  such  a  word,  instead  of  chipping  the 
shell  in  which  the  girl's  faculty  lay  dormant,  would  have 
smashed  the  whole  egg  into  a  miserable  albuminous  mass.. 
And  he  was  well  rewarded  ;  for,  the  same  day,  in  the  evening, 
he  heard  her  singing  gayly  over  her  work,  and  listening  discov- 
ered that  she  was  singing  verse  after  verse  of  one  of  the  best 
ballads  in  the  whole  book.  She  had  chosen  with  the  fancy  of 
pleasing  Godfrey ;  she  sang  to  please  herself.     After  this  dis- 


GODFREY  AND  LETT7.     ^  45 

covery  lie  set  himself  in  earnest  to  the  task  of  developing  her 
intellectual  life,  and,  daily  almost,  grew  more  interested  in  the 
endeavor.  His  main  object  was  to  make  her  think ;  and  for 
the  high  purpose,  chiefly  but  not  exclusively,  he  employed 
verse. 

The  main  obstacle  to  success  he  soon  discovered  to  be 
Letty's  exceeding  distrust  of  herself.  I  would  not  be  mis- 
taken to  mean  that  she  had  too  little  confidence  in  herself ;  of 
that  no  one  can  have  too  little.  Self-distrust  will  only  retard, 
while  self-confidence  will  betray.  The  man  ignorant  in  these 
things  will  answer  me,  "  But  you  must  have  one  or  the 
other."  "You  must  have  neither,"  I  reply.  "You  must 
follow  the  truth,  and,  in  that  pursuit,  the  less  one  thinks  about 
himself,  the  pursuer,  the  better.  Let  him  so  hunger  and 
thirst  after  the  truth  that  the  dim  vision  of  it  occupies  all  his 
being,  and  leaves  no  time  to  think  of  his  hunger  and  his  thirst. 
Self-forgetfulness  in  the  reaching  out  after  that  which  is  essen- 
tial to  us  is  the  healthiest  of  mental  conditions.  One  has  to 
look  to  his  way,  to  his  deeds,  to  his  conduct — not  to  himself. 
In  such  losing  of  the  false,  or  merely  reflected,  we  find  the 
true  self.  There  is  no  harm  in  being  stupid,  so  long  as  a  man 
does  not  think  himself  clever ;  no  good  in  being  clever,  if  a 
man  thinks  himself  so,  for  that  is  a  short  way  to  the  worst 
stupidity.  If  you  think  yourself  clever,  set  yourself  to  do 
something  ;  then  you  will  have  a  chance  of  humiliation. 

With  good  faculties,  and  fine  instincts,  Letty  was  always 
thinking  she  must  be  wrong,  just  because  it  was  she  was  in  it 
— a  lovely  fault,  no  doubt,  but  a  fault  greatly  impeditive  to 
progress,  and  tormenting  to  a  teacher.  She  got  on  very  fairly 
in  spite  of  it,  however ;  and  her  devotion  to  Godfrey,  as  she 
felt  herself  growing  in  his  sight,  increased  almost  to  a  passion. 
Do  not  misunderstand  me,  my  reader.  If  I  say  anything 
grows  to  a  passion,  I  mean,  of  course,  the  passion  of  that 
thing,  not  of  something  else.  Here  I  no  more  mean  that  her 
devotion  became  what  in  novels  is  commonly  called  love,  than, 
if  I  said  ambition  or  avarice  had  grown  to  a  passion,  I  should 
mean  those  vices  had  changed  to  love.  Godfrey  Wardour  was 
at  least  ten  years  older  than  Letty ;  besides  him,  she  had  not 


46     .  MART  MARSTOK 

a  single  male  relative  in  this  world — neither  had  she  mother 
or  sister  on  whom  to  let  out  her  heart ;  while  of  Mrs.  War- 
dour,  who  was  more  severe  on  her  than  on  any  one  else,  she 
was  not  a  little  afraid  :  from  these  causes  it  came  that  Cousin 
Godfrey  grew  and  grew  in  Letty's  imagination,  until  he  was 
to  her  everything  great  and  good — her  idea  of  him  naturally 
growing  as  she  grew  herself  under  his  influences.  To  her  he 
was  the  heart  of  wisdom,  the  head  of  knowledge,  the  arm  of 
strength. 

But  her  worship  was  quiet,  as  the  worship  of  maiden,  in 
whatever  kind,  ought  to  he.  She  knew  nothing  of  what  is 
called  love  except  as  a  word,  and  from  sympathy  with  the  per- 
sons in  the  tales  she  read.  Any  remotest  suggestion  of  its  ex- 
istence in  her  relation  to  Godfrey  she  would  have  resented  as 
the  most  offensive  impertinence — an  accusation  of  impossible 
irreverence. 

By  degrees  Godfrey  came  to  understand,  hut  then  only  in 
a  measure,  with  what  a  self-refusing,  impressionable  nature 
he  was  dealing ;  and,  as  he  saw,  he  became  more  generous  to- 
ward her,  more  gentle  and  delicate  in  his  ministration.  Of 
necessity  he  grew  more  and  more  interested  in  her,  especially 
after  he  had  made  the  discovery  that  the  moment  she  laid 
hold  of  a  truth — the  moment,  that  is,  when  it  was  no  longer 
another's  idea  but  her  own  perception — it  began  to  sprout 
in  her  in  all  directions  of  practice.  By  nature  she  was  not  in- 
tellectually quick;  but,  because  such  was  her  character,  the 
ratio  of  her  progress  was  of  necessity  an  increasing  one. 

If  Godfrey  had  seen  in  his  new  relation  to  Letty  a  pos- 
sibility of  the  revival  of  feelings  he  had  supposed  for  ever  ex- 
tinguished, such  a  possibility  would  have  borne  to  him  purely 
the  aspect  of  danger  ;  at  the  mere  idea  of  again  falling  in  love 
he  would  have  sickened  with  dismay  ;  and  whether  or  not  he 
had  any  dread  of  such  a  catastrophe,  certain  it  is  that  he  be- 
haved to  her  more  as  a  pedagogue  than  a  cousinly  tutor,  insist- 
ing on  a  precision  in  all  she  did  that  might  have  gone  far  to 
rouse  resentment  and  recoil  in  the  mind  of  a  less  childlike 
woman.  Just  as  surely,  notwithstanding  all  that,  however, 
did  the  sweet  girl  grow  into  his  heart  :  it  could  not  be  other- 


GODFREY  AND  LETTY.  47 

wise.  The  idea  of  her  was  making  a  nest  for  itself  in  his  soul 
—what  kind  of  a  nest  for  long  he  did  not  know,  and  for  long 
did  not  think  to  inquire.  Liying  thus,  like  an  elder  brother 
with  a  much  younger  sister,  he  was  more  than  satisfied,  refus- 
ing, it  may  he,  to  regard  the  probability  of  intruding  change. 
But  how  far  any  man  and  woman  may  have  been  made  capable 
of  loving  without  falling  in  loye,  can  be  answered  only  after 
question  has  yielded  to  history.  In  the  mean  time,  Mrs.  War- 
dour,  who  would  have  been  indignant  at  the  notion  of  any 
equal  bond  between  her  idolized  son  and  her  patronized  cousin, 
neither  saw,  nor  heard,  nor  suspected  anything  to  rouse  un- 
easiness. 

Things  were  thus  in  the  old  house,  when  the  growing  affec- 
tion of  Letty  for  Mary  Marston  took  form  one  day  in  the  re- 
quest that  she  would  make  Thorn  wick  the  goal  of  her  Sunday 
walk.  She  repented,  it  is  true,  the  moment  she  had  said  the 
words,  from  dread  of  her  aunt ;  but  they  had  been  said,  and 
were  accepted.  Mary  went,  and  the  aunt  difficulty  had  been 
got  oyer.  The  friendship  of  Godfrey  also  had  now  run  into 
that  of  the  girls,  and  Mary's  visits  were  continued  with  plea- 
sure to  all,  and  certainly  with  no  little  profit  to  herself ;  for, 
where  the  higher  nature  can  not  communicate  the  greater  bene- 
fit, it  will  reap  it.  Her  Sunday  yisit  became  to  Mary  the  one 
foraging  expedition  of  the  week — that  which  going  to  church 
ought  to  be,  and  so  seldom  can  be. 

The  beginning  and  main-stay  of  her  spiritual  life  was,  as 
we  have  seen,  her  father,  in  whom  she  believed  absolutely. 
Erom  books  and  sermons  she  had  got  little  good  ;  for  in  neither 
kind  had  the  best  come  nigh  her.  She  did  very  nearly  her 
best  to  obey,  but  without  much  perceiving  the  splendor  of  the 
thing  required,  or  much  feeling  its  might  upon  her  own  eter- 
nal nature.  She  was  as  yet,  in  relation  to  the  gospel,  much  as 
the  Jews  were  in  relation  to  their  law ;  they  had  not  yet 
learned  the  gospel  of  their  law,  and  she  was  yet  only  serving 
the  law  of  the  gospel.  But  she  was  making  progress,  in  simple 
and  pure  virtue  of  her  obedience.  Show  me  the  person  ready 
to  step  from  any,  let  it  be  the  narrowest,  sect  of  Christian 
Pharisees  into  a  freer  and  holier  air,  and  I  shall  look  to  find  in 


48  MARY  HARST02T. 

that  person  the  one  of  that  sect  who,  in  the  midst  of  its  dark- 
ness and  selfish  worldliness,  mistaken  for  holiness,  has  been 
living  a  life  more  obedient  than  the  rest. 

And  now  was  sent  Godfrey  to  her  aid,  a  teacher  himself  far 
behind  his  pupil,  inasmuch  as  he  was  more  occupied  with  what 
he  was,  than  what  he  had  to  become  :  the  weakest  may  be  sent 
to  give  the  strongest  saving  help ;  even  the  foolish  may  mediate 
between  the  wise  and  the  wiser  ;  and  Godfrey  presented  Mary 
to  men  greater  than  himself,  whom  in  a  short  time  she  would 
understand  even  better  than  he.  Book  after  book  he  lent  her 
— now  and  then  gave  her  one  of  the  best — introducing  her, 
with  no  special  intention,  to  much  in  the  way  of  religion  that 
was  good  in  the  way  of  literature  as  well.  Only  where  he 
delighted  mainly  in  the  literature,  she  delighted  more  in  the 
religion.  Some  of  my  readers  will  be  able  to  imagine  what  it 
must  have  been  to  a  capable,  clear-thinking,  warm-hearted, 
loving  soul  like  Mary,  hitherto  in  absolute  ignorance  of  any 
better  religious  poetry  than  the  chapel  hymn-book  afforded 
her,  to  make  acquaintance  with  George  Herbert,  with  Henry 
Vaughan,  with  Giles  Fletcher,  with  Eichard  Crashaw,  with 
old  Mason,  not  to  mention  Milton,  and  afterward  our  own 
Father  Newman  and  Father  Faber. 

But  it  was  by  no  means  chiefly  upon  such  that  Godfrey  led 
the  talk  on  the  Sunday  afternoons.  A  lover  of  all  truly  imagi- 
native literature,  his  knowledge  of  it  was  large,  nor  confined 
to  that-  of  his  own  country,  although  that  alone  was  at  present 
available  for  either  of  his  pupils.  His  seclusion  from  what  is 
called  the  world  had  brought  him  into  larger  and  closer  con- 
tact with  what  is  really  the  world.  The  breakers  upon  reef 
and  shore  may  be  the  ocean  to  some,  but  he  who  would  know 
the  ocean  indeed  must  leave  them  afar,  sinking  into  silence, 
and  sail  into  wider  and  lonelier  spaces.  Through  Godfrey, 
Mary  came  to  know  of  a  land  never  promised,  yet  open — a  land 
of  whose  nature  even  she  had  never  dreamed — a  land  of  the 
spirit,  flowing  with  milk  and  honey — a  land  of  which  the  fash- 
ionable world  knows  little  more  than  the  dwellers  in  the  back 
slums,  although  it  imagines  it  lying,  with  the  kingdoms  of  the 
earth,  at  its  feet. 


GODFREY  AND  LETTY.  49 

As  regards  her  feeling  toward  her  new  friend,  this  opener 
of  unseen  doors,  the  greatness  of  her  obligation  to  him  wrought 
against  presumption  and  any  possible  folly.  Besides,  Mary  was 
one  who  possessed  power  over  her  own  spirit — rare  gift,  given 
to  none  but  those  who  do  something  toward  the  taking  of  it. 
She  was  able  in  no  small  measure  to  order  her  own  thoughts. 
Without  any  theory  of  self-rule,  she  yet  ruled  her  Self.  She 
was  not  one  to  slip  about  in  the  saddle,  or  let  go  the  reins  for  a 
kick  and  a  plunge  or  two.  There  was  the  thing  that  should  be, 
and  the  thing  that  should  not  be  ;  the  thing  that  was  reason- 
able, and  the  thing  that  was  absurd.  Add  to  all  this,  that  she 
believed  she  saw  in  Mr.  Wardour's  behavior  to  his  cousin,  in 
the  careful  gentleness  evident  through  all  the  severity  of  the 
schoolmaster,  the  presence  of  a  deeper  feeling,  that  might  one 
day  blossom  to  the  bliss  of  her  friend — and  we  need  not  won- 
der if  Mary's  heart  remained  calm  in  the  very  floods  of  its 
gratitude ;  while  the  truth  she  gathered  by  aid  of  the  inter- 
course, enlarging  her  strength,  enlarged  likewise  the  compos- 
ure that  comes  of  strength.  She  did  not  even  trouble  herself 
much  to  show  Godfrey  her  gratitude.  We  may  spoil  gratitude 
as  we  offer  it,  by  insisting  on  its  recognition.  To  receive  hon- 
estly is  the  best  thanks  for  a  good  thing. 

Nor  was  Godfrey  without  payment  for  what  he  did  :  the  re- 
vival of  ancient  benefits,  a  new  spring-time  of  old  flowers,  and 
the  fresh  quickening  of  one's  own  soul,  are  the  spiritual  wages 
of  every  spiritual  service.  In  giving,  a  man  receives  more  than 
he  gives,  and  the  more  is  in  proportion  to  the  worth  of  the 
thing  given. 

Mary  did  not  encourage  Letty  to  call  at  the  shop,  because 
the  rudeness  of  the  Turnbulls  was  certain  "to  break  out  on  her 
departure,  as  it  did  one  day  that  Godfrey,  dismounting  at  the 
door,  and  entering  the  shop  in  quest  of  something  for  his 
mother,  naturally  shook  hands  with  Mary  over  the  counter. 
No  remark  was  made  so  long  as  her  father  was  in  the  shop,  for, 
with  all  their  professed  contempt  of  him  and  his  ways,  the 
Turnbulls  stood  curiously  in  awe  of  him  :  no  one  could  tell 
what  he  might  or  might  not  do,  seeing  they  did  not  in  the  least 
understand  him  ;  and  there  were  reasons  for  avoiding  offense. 

3 


50  MARY  MARSTOW. 

But  the  moment  lie  retired,  which  he  always  did  earlier  than 
the  rest,  the.  small-arms  of  the  enemy  began  to  go  off,  causing 
Mary  a  burning  cheek  and  indignant  heart.  Yet  the  great  de- 
sire of  Mr.  Turnbull  was  a  match  between  George  and  Mary, 
for  that  would,  whatever  might  happen,  secure  the  Marston 
money  to  the  business.  Their  evil  report  Mary  did  not  carry 
to  her  father.  She  scorned  to  trouble  his  lofty  nature  with  her 
small  annoyances  ;  neither  could  they  long  keep  down  the  well- 
spring  of  her  own  peace,  which,  deeper  than  anger  could  reach, 
soon  began  to  rise  again  fresh  in  her  spirit,  fed  from  that  water 
of  life  which  underlies  all  care.  In  a  few  moments  it  had 
cooled  her  cheek,  stilled  her  heart,  and  washed  the  wounds  of 
offense. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

T03I   HELMEE. 

Whek  Tom  Helmer's  father  died,  his  mother,  who  had 
never  been  able  to  manage  him,  sent  him  to  school  to  get  rid 
of  him,  lamented  his  absence  till  he  returned,  then  writhed 
and  fretted  under  his  presence  until  again  he  went.  Never 
thereafter  did  those  two,  mother  and  son,  meet,  whether  from 
a  separation  of  months  or  of  hours,  without  at  once  tumbling 
into  an  obstinate  difference.  When  the  youth  was  at  home, 
their  sparring,  to  call  it  by  a  mild  name,  went  on  from  morn- 
ing to  night,  and  sometimes,  almost  from  night  to  morning. 
Primarily,  of  course,  the  fault  lay  with  the  mother ;  and  things 
would  have  gone  far  worse,  had  not  the  youth,  along  with  the 
self-will  of  his  mother,  inherited  his  father's  good  nature.  At 
school  he  was  a  great  favorite,  and  mostly  had  his  own  way, 
both  with  boys  and  masters,  for,  although  a  fool,  he  was  a 
pleasant  fool,  clever,  fond  of  popularity,  and  complaisant  with 
everybody — except  always  his  mother,  the  merest  word  from 
whom  would  at  once  rouse  all  the  rebel  in  his  blood.  In  per- 
son he  was  tall  and  loosely  knit,  with  large  joints  and  extremi- 
ties.     His  face  was  handsome  and  vivacious,  expressing  far 


TOM  HELMER.  51 

more  than  was  in  him  to  express,  and  giving  ground  for  expec- 
tation such  as  he  had  never  met.  He  was  by  no  means  an  ill- 
intentioned  fellow,  preferred  doing  well  and  acting  fairly,  and 
neither  at  school  nor  at  college  had  got  into  any  serious  scrape. 
But  he  had  never  found  it  imperative  to  reach  out  after  his 
own  ideal  of  duty.  He  had  never  been  worthy  the  name  of 
student,  or  cared  much  for  anything  beyond  the  amusements 
the  universities  provide  so  liberally,  except  dabbling  in  litera- 
ture. Perhaps  his  only  vice  was  self-satisfaction — which  few 
will  admit  to  be  a  vice  ;  remonstrance  never  reached  him  ;  to 
himself  he  was  ever  in  the  right,  judging  himself  only  by  his 
sentiments  and  vague  intents,  never  by  his  actions  ;  that  these 
had  little  correspondence  never  struck  him  ;  it  had  never  even 
struck  him  that  they  ought  to  correspond.  In  his  own  eyes 
he  did  well  enough,  and  a  good  deal  better.  Gifted  not  only 
with  fluency  of  speech,  that  crowning  glory  and  ruin  of  a  fool, 
but  with  plausibility  of  tone  and  demeanor,  a  confidence  that 
imposed  both  on  himself  and  on  others,  and  a  certain  dropsical 
impressionableness  of  surface  which  made  him  seem  and  believe 
himself  sympathetic,  nobody  could  well  help  liking  him,  and 
it  took  some  time  to  make  one  accept  the  disappointment  he 
caused. 

He  was  now  in  his  twenty-first  year,  at  home,  pretending 
that  nothing  should  make  him  go  back  to  Oxford,  and  enjoy- 
ing more  than  ever  the  sport  of  plaguing  his  mother.  A  soul- 
doctor  might  have  prescribed  for  him  a  course  of  small-pox,  to 
be  followed  by  intermittent  fever,  with  nobody  to  wait  upon 
him  but  Mrs.  Gamp  :  after  that,  his  mother  might  have  had  a 
possible  chance  with  him,  and  he  with  his  mother.  But,  un- 
happily, he  had  the  best  of  health — supreme  blessing  in  the 
eyes  of  the  fool  whom  it  enables  to  be  a  worse  fool  still ;  and 
was  altogether  the  true  son  of  his  mother,  who  consoled  her- 
self for  her  absolute  failure  in  his  moral  education  with  the 
reflection  that  she  had  reared  him  sound  in  wind  and  limb. 
Plaguing  his  mother,  amusing  himself  as  best  he.  could,  riding 
about  the  country  on  a  good  mare,"  of  which  he  was  proud,  he 
was  living  in  utter  idleness,  affording  occasion  for  much  won- 
der that  he  had  never  yet  disgraced  himself.     He  talked  to 


52  MARY  MARSTOK 

everybody  who  would  talk  to  him,  and  made  acquaintance  with 
anybody  on  the  spur  of  the  moment's  whim.  He  would  sit  on 
a  log  with  a  gypsy,  and  bamboozle  him  with  lies  made  for  the 
purpose,  then  thrash  him  for  not  believing  them.  He  called 
here  and  called  there,  made  himself  specially  agreeable  every- 
where, went  to  every  ball  and  evening  party  to  which  he  could 
get  admittance  in  the  neighborhood,  and  flirted  with  any  girl 
who  would  let  him.  He  meant  no  harm,  neither  had  done 
much,  and  was  imagined  by  most  incapable  of  doing  any.  The 
strange  thing  to  some  was  that  he  staid  on  in  the  country, 
and  did  not  go  to  London  and  run  up  bills  for  his  mother  to 
pay ;  but  the  mare  accounted  for  a  good  deal ;  and  the  fact 
that  almost  immediately  on  his  late  return  he  had  seen  Letty 
and  fallen  in  love  with  her  at  first  sight,  accounted  for  a  good 
deal  more.  Not  since  then,  however,  had  he  yet  been  able  to 
meet  her  so  as  only  to  speak  to  her ;  for  Thorn  wick  was  one  of 
the  few  houses  of  the  middle  class  in  the  neighborhood  where 
he  was  not  encouraged  to  show  himself.  He  was  constantly, 
therefore,  on  the  watch  for  a  chance  of  seeing  her,  and  every 
Sunday  went  to  church  in  that  same  hope  and  no  other.  But 
Letty  knew  nothing  of  the  favor  in  which  she  stood  with  him  ; 
for,  although  Tom  had,  as  we  have  heard,  confessed  to  her 
friend  Mary  Marston  his  admiration  of  her,  Mary  had  far  too 
much  good  sense  to  make  herself  his  ally  in  the  matter. 


CHAPTEE  VII. 

DURKMELLING. 

Ijst  the  autumn,  Mr.  Mortimer  of  Durnmelling  resolved  to 
give  a  harvest-home  to  his  tenants,  and  under  the  protection  of 
the  occasion  to  invite  also  a  good  many  of  his  neighbors  and  of 
the  townsfolk  of  Testbridge,  whom  he  could  not  well  ask  to 
dinner  :  there  happened  to  be  a  political  expediency  for  some- 
thing of  the  sort :  America  is  not  the  only  country  in  which 
ambition  opens  the  door  to  mean  doings  on  the  part  of  such  as 


DTTRNMELLING.  53 

count  themselves  gentlemen.  Not  a  few  on  whom  Lady  Mar- 
garet had  never  called,  and  whom  she  would  never  in  any  way 
acknowledge  again,  were  invited ;  nor  did  the  knowledge  of 
what  it  meant  cause  many  of  them  to  decline  the  questionable 
honor — which  fact  carried,  in  it  the  best  justification  of  which 
the  meanness  and  insult  were  capable.  Mrs.  Wardour  accepted 
for  herself  and  Letty ;  but  in  their  case  Lady  Margaret  did 
call,  and  in  person  give  the  invitation.  Godfrey  positively  re- 
fused to  accompany  them.  He  would  not  be  patronized,  he 
said ;  " — and  by  an  inferior,"  he  added  to  himself. 

Mr.  Mortimer  was  the  illiterate  son  of  a  literary  father  who 
had  reaped  both  money  and  fame.  The  son  spent  the  former, 
on  the  strength  of  the  latter  married  an  earl's  daughter,  and 
thereupon  began  to  embody  in  his  own  behavior  his  ideas  of 
how  a  nobleman  ought  to  carry  himself  ;  whence,  from  being- 
only  a  small,  he  became  an  objectionable  man,  and  failed  of 
being  amusing  by  making  himself  offensive.  He  had  never 
manifested  the  least  approach  to  neighborliness  with  Godfrey, 
although  their  houses  were  almost  within  a  stone's  throw  of 
each  other.  Had  Wardour  been  an  ordinary  farmer,  of  whose 
presuming  on  the  acquaintance  there  could  have  been  no  dan- 
ger, Mortimer  would  doubtless  have  behaved  differently ;  but 
as  "Wardour  had  some  pretensions — namely,  old  family,  a  small, 
though  indeed  very  small,  property  of  his  own,  a  university 
education,  good  horses,  and  the  habits  and  manners  of  a  gentle- 
man— the  men  scarcely  even  saluted  when  they  met.  The 
Mortimer  ladies,  indeed,  had  more  than  once  remarked — but 
it  was  in  solemn  silence,  each  to  herself  only — how  well  the 
man  sat,  and  how  easily  he  handled  the  hunter  he  always  rode  ; 
but  not  once  until  now  had  so  much  as  a  greeting  passed  be- 
tween them  and  Mrs.  Wardour.  It  was  not  therefore  wonderful 
that  Godfrey  should  not  choose  to  accept  their  invitation. 
Finding,  however,  that  his  mother  was  distressed  at  having  to 
go  to  the  gathering  without  him,  and  far  more  exercised  in 
her  mind  than  was  needful  as  to  what  would  be  thought  of  his 
absence,  and  what  excuse  it  would  be  becoming  to  make,  he 
resolved  to  go  to  London  a  day  or  two  before  the  event,  and 
pay  a  long-promised  visit  to  a  clerical  friend. 


54  MART  MARSTOK 

The  relative  situation  of  the  houses — I  mean  the  stone-and- 
lime  houses — of  Durnmelling  and  Thornwick,  was  curious ; 
and  that  they  had  at  one  time  formed  part  of  the  same  prop- 
erty might  have  suggested  itself  to  any  beholder.  Durnmelling 
was  built  by  an  ancestor  of  Godfrey's,  who,  forsaking  the 
old  nest  for  the  new,  had  allowed  Thornwick  to  sink  into  a 
mere  farmhouse,  in  which  condition  it  had  afterward  become 
the  sole  shelter  of  the  withered  fortunes  of  the  Wardours.  In 
the  hands  of  Godfrey's  father,  by  a  continuity  of  judicious 
cares,  and  a  succession  of  partial  resurrections,  it  had  been 
restored  to  something  like  its  original  modest  dignity.  Durn- 
melling, too,  had  in  part  sunk  into  ruin,,  and  had  been  but 
partially  recovered  from  it ;  still,  it  swelled  important  beside 
its  antecedent  Thornwick.  Nothing  but  a  deep  ha-ha  separated 
the  two  houses,  of  which  the  older  and  smaller  occupied  the 
higher  ground.'  Between  it  and  the  ha-ha  was  nothing  but 
grass — in  front  of  the  house  fine  enough  and  well  enough  kept 
to  be  called  lawn,  had  not  Godfrey's  pride  refused  the  word. 
On  the  lower,  the  Durnmelling  side  of  the  fence,  were  trees, 
shrubbery,  and  out-houses — -the  chimney  of  one  of  which,  the 
laundry,  gave  great  offense  to  Mrs.  Wardour,  when,  as  she 
said,  wind  and  wash  came  together.  But,  although  they  stood 
so  near,  there  was  no  lawful  means  of  communication  between 
the  houses  except  the  road ;  and  the  mile  that  implied  was 
seldom  indeed  passed  by  any  of  the  unneighboiiy  neighbors. 

The  father  of  Lady  Margaret  would  at  one  time  have  pur- 
chased Thornwick  at  twice  its  value  ;  but  the  present  owner 
could  not  have  bought  it  at  half  its  worth.  He  had  of  late 
been  losing  money  heavily — whence,  in  part,  arose  that  anxiety 
of  Lady  Margaret's  not  to  keep  Mr.  Redmain  fretting  for  his 
lunch. 

The  house  of  Durnmelling,  new  compared  with  that  of 
Thornwick,  was  yet,  as  I  have  indicated,  old  enough  to  have 
passed  also  through  vicissitudes,  and  a  large  portion  of  the 
original  structure  had  for  many  years  been  nothing  better  than 
a  ruin.  Only  a  portion  of  one  side  of  its  huge  square  was 
occupied  by  the  family,  and  the  rest  of  that  side  was  not 
habitable.     Lady  Margaret,  of  an  ancient  stock,  had  gathered 


DURNMELLim.  55 

from  it  only  pride,  not  reverence  ;  therefore,  while  she  valued 
the  old,  she  neglected  it ;  and  what  money  she  and  her  hus- 
band at  one  time  spent  upon  the  house,  was  devoted  to  addition 
and  ornamentation,  nowise  to  preservation  or  restoration.  They 
had  enlarged  both  dining-room  and  drawing-rooms  to  twice 
their  former  size,  when  half  the  expense,  with  a  few  trees  from 
a  certain  outlying  oak-plantation  of  their  own,  would  have 
given  them  a  room  fit  for  a  regal  assembly.  For,  constituting 
a  portion  of  the  same  front  in  which  they  lived,  lay  roofless, 
open  to  every  wind  that  blew,  its  paved  floor  now  and  then  in 
winter  covered  with  snow — an  ancient  hall,  whose  massy  south 
wall  was  pierced  by  three  lovely  windows,  narrow  and  lofty, 
with  simple,  gracious  tracery  in  their  pointed  heads.  This  hall 
connected  the  habitable  portion  of  the  house  with  another 
part,  less  ruinous  than  itself,  but  containing  only  a  few  rooms 
in  occasional  use  for  household  purposes,  or,  upon  necessity, 
for  quite  inferior  lodgment.  It  was  a  glorious  ruin,  of  nearly 
a  hundred  feet  in  length,  and  about  half  that  in  width,  the 
walls  entire,  and  broad  enough  to  walk  round  upon  in  safety. 
Their  top  was  accessible  from  a  tower,  which  formed  part  of 
the  less  ruinous  portion,  and  contained  the  stair  and  some 
small  rooms. 

Once,  the  hall  was  fair  with  portraits  and  armor  and  arms, 
with  fire  and  lights,  and  state  and  merriment ;  now  the  sculp- 
tured chimney  lay  open  to  the  weather,  and  the  sweeping 
winds  had  made  its  smooth  hearthstone  clean  as  if  fire  had 
never  been  there.  Its  floor  was  covered  with  large  flags,  a 
little  broken  :  these,  in  prospect  of  the  coming  entertainment, 
a  few  workmen  were  leveling,  patching,  replacing.  For  the 
tables  were  to  be  set  here,  and  here  there  was  to  be  dancing 
after  the  meal. 

It  was  Miss  Yolland's  idea,  and  to  her  was  committed  the 
responsibility  of  its  preparation  and  adornment  for  the  occa- 
sion, in  which  Hesper  gave  her  active  assistance.  With  colored 
blankets,  with  carpets,  with  a  few  pieces  of  old  tapestry,  and 
a  quantity  of  old  curtains,  mostly  of  chintz,  excellent  in  hues 
and  design,  all  cunningly  arranged  for  as  much  of  harmony  as 
could  be  had,  they  contrived  to  clothe  the  walls  to  the  height 


56  MARY  MARSTOK 

of  six  or  eight  feet,  and  so  gave  the  weather-beaten  skeleton 
an  air  of  hospitable  preparation  and  respectful  reception. 

The  day  and  the  hour  arrived.  It  was  a  hot  autumnal 
afternoon.  Borne  in  all  sorts  of  vehicles,  from  a  carriage  and 
pair  to  a  taxed  cart,  the  guests  kept  coming.  As  they  came, 
they  mostly  scattered  about  the  place.  Some  loitered  on  the 
lawn  by  the  flower-beds  and  the  fountain ;  some  visited  the 
stables  and  the  home-farm,  with  its  cow-houses  and  dairy  and 
piggeries ;  some  the  neglected  greenhouses,  and  some  the 
equally  neglected  old-fashioned  alleys,  with  their  clipped  yews 
and  their  moss-grown  statues.  No  one  belonging  to  the  house 
was  anywhere  visible  to  receive  them,  until  the  great  bell  at 
length  summoned  them  to  the  plentiful  meal  spread  in  the 
ruined  hall.  "The  hospitality  of  some  people  has  no  roof  to 
it,"  Godfrey  said,  when  he  heard  of  the  preparations.  "Ten 
people  will  give  you  a  dinner,  for  one  who  will  offer  you  a  bed 
and  a  breakfast." 

Then  at  last  their  host  made  his  appearance,  and  took  the 
head  of  the  table  :  the  ladies,  he  said,  were  to  have  the  honor 
of  joining  the  company  afterward.  They  were  at  the  time — 
but  this  he  did  not  say — giving  another  stratum  of  society  a 
less  ponderous,  but  yet  tolerably  substantial,  refreshment  in 
the  dining-room. 

By  the  time  the  eating  and  drinking  were  nearly  over,  the 
shades  of  evening  had  gathered.;  but  even  then  some  few  of 
the  farmers,  capable  only  of  drinking,  grumbled  at  having 
their  potations  interrupted  for  the  dancers.  These  were  pres- 
ently joined  by  the  company  from  the  house,  and  the  great 
hall  was  crowded.. 

Much  to  her  chagrin,  Mrs.  Wardour  had  a  severe  headache, 
occasioned  by  her  working  half  the  night  at  her  dress,  and  was 
compelled  to  remain  at  home.  But  she  allowed  Letty  to  go 
without  her,  which  she  would  not  have  done  had  she  not  been 
so  anxious  to  have  news  of  what  she  could  not  lift  her  head  to 
see  :  she  sent  her  with  an  old  servant — herself  one  of  the  in- 
vited guests — to  gather  and  report.  The  dancing  had  begun 
before  they  reached  the  hall. 

Tom  Helmer  had  arrived  among  the  first,  and  had  joined 


DURNMELLING.  57 

the  tenants  in  their  feast,  faring  well,  and  making  friends,  such 
as  he  knew  how  to  make,  with  everybody  in  his  vicinity.  When 
the  tables  were  removed,  and  the  rest  of  the  company  began  to 
come  in,  he  went  about  searching  anxiously  for  Letty's  sweet 
face,  but  it  did  not  appear ;  and,  when  she  did  arrive,  she  stole 
in  without  his  seeing  her,  and  stood  mingled  with  the  crowd 
about  the  door. 

It  was  a  pleasant  sight  that  met  her  eyes.  The  wide  space 
was  gayly  illuminated  with  colored  lamps,  disposed  on  every 
shelf,  and  in  every  crevice  of  the  walls,  some  of  them  gleaming 
like  glow-worms  out  of  mere  holes  ;  while  candles  in  sconces, 
and  lamps  on  the  window-sills  and  wherever  they  could  stand, 
gave  a  light  the  more  pleasing  that  it  was  not  brilliant,  Over- 
head, the  night-sky  was  spangled  with  clear  pulsing  stars,  afloat 
in  a  limpid  blue,  vast  even  to  awf  ulness  in  the  eyes  of  such — 
were  any  such  there  ? — as  say  to  themselves  that  to  those  worlds 
also  were  they  born.  Outside,  it  was  dark,  save  where  the 
light  streamed  from  the  great  windows  far  into  the  night.  The 
moon  was  not  yet  up  ;  she  would  rise  in  good  time  to  see  the 
scattering  guests  to  their  homes. 

Tom's  heart  had  been  sinking,  for  he  could  see  Letty  no- 
where. Now  at  last,  he  had  been  saying  to  himself  all  the  day, 
had  come  his  chance  !  and  his  chance  seemed  but  to  mock  him. 
More  than  any  girl  he  had  ever  seen,  had  Letty  moved  him — 
perhaps  because  she  was  more  unlike  his  mother.  He  knew 
nothing,  it  is  true,  or  next  to  nothing,  of  her  nature  ;  but  that 
was  of  little  consequence  to  one  who  knew  nothing,  and  never 
troubled  himself  to  know  anything,  of  his  own.  "Was  he 
doomed  never  to  come  near  his  idol  ? — Ah,  there  she  was ! 
Yes  ;  it  was  she — all  but  lost  in  a  humble  group  near  the  door  ! 
His  foolish  heart — not  foolish  in  that — gave  a  great  bound,  as 
if  it  would  leap  to  her  where  she  stood.  She  was  dressed  in 
white  muslin,  from  which  her  white  throat  rose  warm  and 
soft.  Her  head  was  bent  forward,  and  a  gentle  dissolved  smile 
was  over  all  her  face,  as  with  loveliest  eyes  she  watched  eagerly 
the  motions  of  the  dance,  and  her  ears  drank  in  the  music  of 
the  yeomanry  band.  He  seized  the  first  opportunity  of  getting 
nearer  to  her.     He  had  scarcely  spoken  to  her  before,  but  that 


58  MARY  MARSTOK 

did  not  trouble  Tom.  Even  in  a  more  ceremonious  assembly, 
that  would  never  have  abashed  him  ;  and  here  there  was  little 
form,  and  much  freedom.  He  had,  besides,  confidence  in  his 
own  carriage  and  manners — which,  indeed,  were  those  of  a  gen- 
tleman— and  knew  himself  not  likely  to  repel  by  his  approach. 

Mr.  Mortimer  had  opened  the  dancing  by  leading  out  the 
wife  of  his  principal  tenant,  a  handsome  matron,  whose  behav- 
ior and  expression  were  such  as  to  give  a  safe,  home-like  feel- 
ing to  the  shy  and  doubtful  of  the  company.  But  Tom  knew 
better  than  injure  his  chance  by  precipitation  :  he  would  wait 
imtil  the  dancing  was  more  general,  and  the  impulse  to  move- 
ment stronger,  and  then  offer  himself.  He  stood  therefore 
near  Letty  for  some  little  time,  talking  to  everybody,  and  mak- 
ing himself  agreeable,  as  was  his  wont,  all  round  ;  then  at  last, 
as  if  he  had  just  caught  sight  of  her,  walked  up  to  her  where 
she  stood  flushed  and  eager,  and  asked  her  to  favor  him  with 
her  hand  in  the  next  dance. 

By  this  time  Letty  had  got  familiar  with  his  presence,  had 
recalled  her  former  meeting  with  him,  had  heard  his  name 
spoken  by  not  a  few  who  evidently  liked  him,  and  was  quite 
pleased  when  he  asked  her  to  dance  with  him. 

In  the  dance,  nothing  but  commonplaces  passed  between 
them  ;  but  Tom  had  a  certain  pleasant  way  of  his  own  in  say- 
ing the  commonest,  emptiest  things— an  off-hand,  glancing, 
skimming,  swallow-like  way  of  brushing  and  leaving  a  thing, 
as  if  he  "could  an'  if  he  would,"  which  made  it  seem  for  the 
moment  as  if  he  had  said  something  :  were  his  companion  capa- 
ble of  discovering  the  illusion,  there  was  no  time ;  Tom  was 
instantly  away,  carrying  him  or  her  with  him  to  something  else. 
But  there  was  better  than  this — there  was  poetry,  more  than 
one  element  of  it,  in  Tom.  In  the  presence  of  a  girl  that 
pleased  him,  there  would  rise  in  him  a  poetic  atmosphere,  full 
of  a  rainbow  kind  of  glamour,  which,  first  possessing  himself, 
passed  out  from  him  and  called  up  a  similar  atmosphere,  a  sim- 
ilar glamour,  about  many  of  the  girls  he  talked  to.  This  he 
could  no  more  help  than  the  grass  can  help  smelling  sweet 
after  the  rain. 

Tom  was  a  finely  projected,  well-built,  unfinished,  barely 


DURNHELLING.  59 

furnished  house,  with  its  great  central  room  empty,  where  the 
devil,  coming  and  going  at  his  pleasure,  had  not  yet  begun  to 
make  any  great  racket.  There  might  be  endless  embryonic 
evil  in  him,  but  Letty  was  aware  of  no  repellent  atmosphere 
about  him,  and  did  not  shrink  from  his  advances.  He  pleased 
her,  and  why  should  she  not  be  pleased  with  him  ?  Was  it  a 
fault  to  be  easily  pleased  ?  The  truer  and  sweeter  any  human 
self,  the  readier  is  it  to  be  pleased  with  another  self — save, 
indeed,  something  in  it  grate  on  the  moral  sense :  that  jars 
through  the  whole  harmonious  hypostasy.  To  Tom,  there- 
fore, Letty  responded  with  smiles  and  pleasant  words,  even 
grateful  to  such  a  fine  youth  for  taking  notice  of  her  small 
self. 

The  sun  had  set  in  a  bank  of  cloud,  which,  as  if  he  had 
been  a  lump  of  leaven  to  it,  immediately  began  to  swell  and 
rise,  and  now  hung  dark  and  thick  over  the  still,  warm  night. 
Even  the  farmers  were  unobservant  of  the  change  :  their  crops 
were  all  in,  they  had  eaten  and  drunk  heartily,  and  were  merry, 
looking  on  or  sharing  in  the  multiform  movement,  their  eyes 
filled  with  light  and  color. 

Suddenly  came  a  torrent-sound  in  the  air,  heard  of  few  and 
heeded  by  none,  and  straight  into  the  hall  rushed  upon  the  gay 
company  a  deluge  of  rain,  mingled  with  large,  half -melted  hail- 
stones. In  a  moment  or  two  scarce  a  light  was  left  burning, 
except  those  in  the  holes  and  recesses  of  the  walls.  The  mer- 
rymakers scattered  like  flies — into  the  house,  into  the  tower, 
into  the  sheds  and  stables  in  the  court  behind,  under  the  trees 
in  front — anywhere  out  of  the  hall,  where  shelter  was  none 
from  the  perpendicular,  abandoned  down-pour. 

At  that  moment,  Letty  was  dancing  with  Tom,  and  her 
hand  happened  to  be  in  his.  He  clasped  it  tight,  and,  as 
quickly  as  the  crowd  and  the  confusion  of  shelter-seeking  would 
permit,  led  her  to  the  door  of  the  tower  already  mentioned. 
But  many  had  run  in  the  same  direction,  and  already  its  lower 
story  and  stair  were  crowded  with  refugees — the  elder  bemoan- 
ing the  sudden  change,  and  folding  tight  around  them  what 
poor  wraps  they  were  fortunate  enough  to  have  retained  ;  the 
younger  merrier  than  ever,  notwithstanding  the  cold  gusts  that 


60  MARY  MARSTON. 

now  poked  their  spirit-arms  hither  and  thither  through  the 
openings-  of  the  half -ruinous  building  :  to  them  even  the  de- 
struction of  their  finery  was  but  added  cause  of  laughter.  But 
a  few  minutes  before,  its  freshness  had  been  a  keen  pleasure  to 
them,  brightening  their  consciousness  with  a  rare  feeling  of 
perfection  ;  now  crushed  and  rumpled,  soiled  and  wet  and 
torn,  it  was  still  fuel  to  the  fire  of  gayety.  But  Tom  did  not 
stay  among  them.  He  knew  the  place  well ;  having  a  turn  for 
scrambling,  he  had  been  allover  it  many  a  time.  On  through 
the  crowd,  he  led  Letty  up  the  stair  to  the  first  floor.  Even 
here  were  a  few  couples  talking  and  laughing  in  the  dark. 
With  a  warning,  by  no  means  unnecessary,  to  mind  where  they 
stepped,  for  the  floors  were  bad,  he  passed  on  to  the  next 
stair. 

"Let  us  stop  here,  Mr.  Helmer,"  said  Letty.  "There  is 
plenty  of  room  here." 

"I  want  to  show  you  something,"  answered  Tom.  "You 
need  not  be  frightened.     I  know  every  nook  of  the  place." 

"lam  not  frightened,"  said  Letty,  and  made  no  further 
objection. 

At  the  top  of  that  stair  they  entered  a  straight  passage,  in 
the  middle  of  which  was  a  faint  glimmer  of  light  from  an  oval 
aperture  in  the  side  of  it.  Thither  Tom  led  Letty,  and  told 
her  to  look  through.     She  did  so. 

Beneath  lay  the  great  gulf,  wide  and  deep,  of  the  hall  they 
had  just  left.  This  was  the  little  window,  high  in  its  gable, 
through  which,  in  far-away  times,  the  lord  or  lady  of  the  man- 
sion could  oversee  at  will  whatever  went  on  below. 

The  rain  had  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  came  on,  and  already 
lights  were  moving  about  in  the  darkness  of  the  abyss — one, 
and  another,  and  another,  was  searching  for  something  lost  in 
the  hurry  of  the  scattering.  It  was  a  waste  and  dismal  show. 
Neither  of  them  had  read  Dante  ;  but  Letty  may  have  thought 
of  the  hall  of  Belshazzar,  the  night  after  the  hand-haunted 
revel,  when  the  Medes  had  had  their  will ;  for  she  had  but 
lately  read  the  story.  A  strange  fear  came  upon  her,  and  she 
drew  back  with  a  shudder. 

"Are  you  cold?"  said  Tom.     "Of  course  you  must  be, 


DURNMELLING.  61 

with  nothing  but  that  thin  muslin  !  Shall  I  run  down  and  get 
you  a  shawl  ?  " 

"Oh,  no!  do  not  leave  me,  please.  It's  not  that,"  an- 
swered Letty.  "  I  don't  mind  the  wind  a  bit ;  it's  rather  pleas- 
ant. It's  only  that  the  look  of  the  place  makes  me  miserable, 
I  think.  It  looks  as  if  no  one  had  danced  there  for  a  hundred 
years." 

"  Neither  any  one  has,  I  suppose,  till  to-night,"  said  Tom. 
"  What  a  fine  place  it  would  be  if  only  it  had  a  roof  to  it !  I 
can't  think  how  any  one  can  live  beside  it  and  leave  it  like 
that!" 

But  Tom  lived  a  good  deal  closer  to  a  worse  ruin,  and  never 
spent  a  thought  on  it. 

Letty  shivered  again. 

"I'm  quite  ashamed  of  myself,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak 
cheerfully.  "I  can't  think  why  I  should  feel  like  this — just 
as  if  something  dreadful  were  watching  me  !  I'll  go  home, 
Mr.  Helmer." 

"  It  will  be  much  the  safest  thing  to  do  :  I  fear  you  have 
indeed  caught  cold,"  replied  Tom,  rejoiced  at  the  chance  of 
accompanying  her.     "  I  shall  be  delighted  to  see  you  safe." 

"  There  is  not  the  least  occasion  for  that,  thank  you,"  an- 
swered Letty.  "I  have  an  old  servant  of  my  aunt's  with  me 
— somewhere  about  the  place.  The  storm  is  quite  over  now  :  I 
will  go  and  find  her." 

Tom  made  no  objection,  but  helped  her  down  the  dark  stair, 
hoping,  however,  the  servant  might  not  be  found. 

As  they  went,  Letty  seemed  to  herself  to  be  walking  in  some 
old  dream  of  change  and  desertion.  The  tower  was  empty  as 
a  monument,  not  a  trace  of  the  crowd  left,  which  a  few  min- 
utes before  had  thronged  it.  The  wind  had  risen  in  earnest 
now,  and  was  rushing  about,  like  a  cold  wild  ghost,  through 
every  cranny  of  the  desolate  place.  Had  Letty,  when  she 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  found  herself  on  the  rocks  of 
the  seashore,  with  the  waves  dashing  up  against  them,  she 
would  only  have  said  to  herself,  "  I  knew  I  was  in  a  dream  ! " 
But  the  wind  having  blown  away  the  hail-cloud,  the  stars  were 
again  shining  down  into  the  hall.     One  or  two  forlorn-looking 


62  MARY  MARSTOK 

searchers  were  still  there  ;  the  rest  had  scattered  like  the  gnats. 
A  few  were  already  at  home  ;  some  were  harnessing  their  horses 
to  go,  nor  would  wait  for  the  man  in  the  moon  to  light  his 
lantern  ;  some  were  already  trudging  on  foot  through  the 
dark.  Hesper  and  Miss  Yolland  were  talking  to  two  or  three 
friends  in  the  drawing-room  ;  Lady  Margaret  was  in  her  bou- 
doir, and  Mr.  Mortimer  smoking  a  cigar  in  his  study. 

Nowhere  could  Letty  find  Susan.  She  was  in  the  farmer's 
kitchen  behind.  Tom  suspected  as  much,  but  was  far  from 
hinting  the  possibility.  Letty  found  her  cloak,  which  she  had 
left  in  the  hall,  soaked  with  rain,  and  thought  it  prudent  to  go 
home  at  once,  nor  prosecute  her  search  for  Susan  further.  She 
accepted,  therefore,  Tom's  renewed  offer  of  his  company. 

They  were  just  leaving  the  hall,  when  a  thought  came  to 
Letty :  the  moon  suddenly  appearing  above  the  horizon  had 
put  it  in  her  head. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  I  know  quite  a  short  way  home  ! "  and, 
without  waiting  any  response  from  her  companion,  she  turned, 
and  led  him  in  an  opposite  direction,  round,  namely,  by  the 
back  of  the  court,  into  a  field.  There  she  made  for  a  huge  oak, 
which  gloomed  in  the  moonlight  by  the  sunk  fence  parting  the 
grounds.  In  the  slow  strength  of  its  growth,  by  the  rounding 
of  its  bole,  and  the  spreading  of  its  roots,  it  had  so  rent  and 
crumbled  the  wall  as  to  make  through  it  a  little  ravine,  lead- 
ing to  the  top  of  the  ha-ha.  When  they  reached  it,  before  even 
Tom  saw  it,  Letty  turned  from  him,  and  was  up  in  a  moment. 
At  the  top  she  turned  to  bid  him  good  night,  but  there  he  was, 
close  behind  her,  insisting  on  seeing  her  safe  to  the  house. 

"  Is  this  the  way  you  always  come  ?"  asked  Tom. 

"I  never  was  on  Durnmelling  land  before,"  answered  Letty. 

"How  did  you  find  the  short-cut,  then  ?"  he  asked.  "It 
certainly  does  not  look  as  if  it  were  much  used." 

"Of  course  not,"  replied  Letty.  "There  is  no  communi- 
cation between  Durnmelling  and  Thornwick  now.  It  was  all 
ours  once,  though,  Cousin  Godfrey  says.  Did  you  notice  how 
the  great  oak  sends  its  biggest  arm  over  our  field  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  often  sit  there  under  it,  when  I  want  to  learn  my 


THE  OAK.  63 

lesson,  and  can't  rest  in  the  house ;  and  that's  how  I  know  of 
the  crack  in  the  ha-ha." 

She  said  it  in  absolute  innocence,  but  Tom  laid  it  up  in  his 
mind. 

"Are  you  at  lessons  still?  "he  said.  "Have  you  a  gov- 
erness ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  in  a  tone  of  amusement.  "  But  Cousin 
Godfrey  teaches  me  many  things." 

This  made  Tom  thoughtful ;  and  little  more  had  been  said, 
when  they  reached  the  gate  of  the  yard  behind  the  house,  and 
she  would  not  let  him  go  a  step  farther. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   OAK. 

Ik  the  morning,  as  she  narrated  the  events  of  the  evening, 
she  told  her  aunt  of  the  acquaintance  she  had  made,  and  that 
he  had  seen  her  home.  This  information  did  not  please  the 
old  lady,  as,  indeed,  without  knowing  any  reason,  Letty  had 
expected.  Mrs.  Wardour  knew  all  about  Tom's  mother,  or 
thought  she  did,  and  knew  little  good ;  she  knew  also  that, 
although  her  son  was  a  general  favorite,  her  own  son  had  a 
very  poor  opinion  of  him.  On  these  grounds,  and  without  a 
thought  of  injustice  to  Letty,  she  sharply  rebuked  the  poor 
girl  for  allowing  such  a  fellow  to  pay  her  any  attention,  and 
declared  that,  if  ever  she  permitted  him  so  much  as  to  speak 
to  her  again,  she  would  do  something  which  she  left  in  a  cloud 
of  vaguest  suggestion. 

Letty  made  no  reply.  She  was  hurt.  Nor  was  it  any  won- 
der if  she  judged  this  judgment  of  Tom  by  the  injustice  of 
the  judge  to  herself.  It  was  of  no  consequence  to  her,  she 
said  to  herself,  whether  she  spoke  to  him  again  or  not ;  but 
had  any  one  the  right  to  compel  another  to  behave  rudely  ? 
Only  what  did  it  matter,  since  there  was  so  little  chance  of 
her  ever  seeing  him  again  !    All  day  she  felt  weary  and  dis- 


64  MARY  MARSTON. 

appointed,  and,  after  the  merrymaking  of  the  night  before, 
the  household  work  was  irksome .  But  she  would  soon  have 
got  over  both  weariness  and  tedium  had  her  aunt  been  kind. 
It  is  true,  she  did  not  again  refer  to  Tom,  taking  it  for  granted 
that  he  was  done  with ;  but  all  day  she  kept  driving  Letty 
from  one  thing  to  another,  nor  was  once  satisfied  with  any- 
thing she  did,  called  her  even  an  ungrateful  girl,  and,  before 
evening,  had  rendered  her  more  tired,  mortified,  and  dispirited, 
than  she  had  ever  been  in  her  life. 

But  the  tormentor  was  no  demon  ;  she  was  only  doing 
what  all  of  us  have  often  done,  and  ought  to  be  heartily 
ashamed  of  :  she  was  only  emptying  her  fountain  of  bitter 
water.  Oppressed  with  the  dregs  of  her  headache,  wretched 
because  of  her  son's  absence,  who  had  not  been  a  night  from 
home  for  years,  annoyed  that  she  had  spent  time  and  money  in 
preparation  for  nothing,  she  had  allowed  the  said  cistern  to  fill 
to  overflowing,  and  upon  Letty  it  overflowed  like  a  small  del- 
uge. Like  some  of  the  rest  of  us,  she  never  reflected  how 
balefully  her  evil  mood  might  operate  ;  and  that  all  things 
work  for  good  in  the  end,  will  not  cover  those  by  whom  come 
the  offenses.  Another  night's  rest,  it  is  true,  sent  the  evil 
mood  to  sleep  again  for  a  time,  but  did  not  exorcise  it ;  for 
there  are  demons  that  go  not  out  without  prayer,  and  a  bad 
temper  is  one  of  them — a  demon  as  contemptible,  mean- 
spirited,  and  unjust,  as  any  in  the  peerage  of  hell — much 
petted,  nevertheless,  and  excused,  by  us  poor  lunatics  who  are 
possessed  by  him.  Mrs.  Wardour  was  a  lady,  as  the  ladies  of 
this  world  go,  but  a  poor  lady  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven  :  I 
should  wonder  much  if  she  ranked  as  more  than  a  very  com- 
mon woman  there. 

The  next  day  all  was  quiet ;  and  a  visit  paid  Mrs.  Wardour 
by  a  favorite  sister  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  months,  set 
Letty  at  such  liberty  as  she  seldom  had.  In  the  afternoon  she 
took  the  book  Godfrey  had  given  her,  in  which  he  had  set 
her  one  of  Milton's  smaller  poems  to  study,  and  sought  the 
shadow  of  the  Durnmelling  oak. 

It  was  a  lovely  autumn  day,  the  sun  glorious  as  ever  in 
the  memory  of  Abraham,  or  the  author  of  Job,  or  the  builder 


THE  OAK.  65 

of  the  scaled  pyramid  at  Sakkara.  But  there  was  a  keen- 
ness in  the  air  notwithstanding,  which  made  Letty  feel  a 
little  sad  without  knowing  why,  as  she  seated  herself  to  the 
task  Cousin  Godfrey  had  set  her.  She,  as  well  as  his  mother, 
heartily  wished  he  were  home.  She  was  afraid  of  him,  it  is 
true  ;  but  in  how  different  a  way  from  that  in  which  she 
was  afraid  of,  his  mother  !  His  absence  did  not  make  her  feel 
free,  and  to  escape  from  his  mother  was  sometimes  the  whole 
desire  of  her  day. 

She  was  trying  hard,  not  altogether  successfully,  to  fix  her 
attention  on  her  task,  when  a  yellow  leaf  dropped  on  the  very 
line  she  was  poring  over.  Thinking  how  soon  the  trees  would 
be  bare  once  more,  she  brushed  the  leaf  away,  and  resumed  her 
lesson. 

"  To  fill  thy  odorous  lamp  with  deeds  of  light," 

she  had  just  read  once  more,  when  clown  fell  a  second  tree-leaf 
on  the  book-leaf.  Again  she  brushed  it  away,  and  read  to  the 
end  of  the  sonnet : 

"  Hast  gained  thy  entrance,  virgin  wise  and  pure." 

What  Letty's  thoughts  about  the  sonnet  were,  I  can  not 
tell :  how  fix  thought  indefinite  in  words  defined  ?  But  her 
angel  might  well  have  thought  what  a  weary  road  she  had  to 
walk  before  she  gained  that  entrance.  But  for  all  of  us  the 
road  lias  to  be  walked,  every  step,  and  the  uttermost  farthing 
paid.  The  gate  will  open  wide  to  welcome  us,  but  it  will  not 
come  to  meet  us.  Neither  is  it  any  use  to  turn  aside  ;  it  only 
makes  the  road  longer  and  harder. 

Down  on  the  same  spot  fell  the  third  leaf.  Letty  looked 
up.  There  was  a  man  in  the  tree  over  her  head.  She  started 
to  her  feet.  At  the  same  moment,  he  dropped  on  the  ground 
beside  her,  lifting  his  hat  as  coolly  as  if  he  had  met  her  on  the 
road.  Her  heart  seemed  to  stand  still  with  fright.  She  stood 
silent,  with  white  lips  parted. 

"I  hope  I  haven't  frightened  you,"  said  Tom.  " Do  for- 
give me,"  he  added,  becoming  more  aware  of  the  perturbation 
he  had  caused  her.     "You  were  so  kind  to  me  the  other 


QQ  MARY  MARSTOK 

night,  I  could  not  help  wanting  to  see  you  again.  I  had  no 
idea  the  sight  of  me  would  terrify  you  so." 

"  You  gave  me  such  a  start ! "  gasped  Letty,  with  her  hand 
pressed  on  her  heart. 

"  I  was  afraid  of  it,"  answered  Tom  ;  "  but  what  could  I 
do  ?  I  was  certain,  if  you  saw  me  coming,  you  would  run 
away." 

"Why  should  you  think  that  ?"  asked  Letty,  a  faint  color 
rising  in  her  cheek. 

"Because,"  answered  Tom,  "I  was  sure  they  would  be 
telling  you  all  manner  of  things  against  me.  But  there  is  no 
harm  in  me — really,  Miss  Loyel — nothing,  that  is,  worth  men- 
tioning." 

"I  am  sure  there  isn't,"  said  Letty  ;  and  then  there  was  a 
pause. 

"  What  book  are  you  reading,  may  I  ask  ?"  said  Tom. 

Letty  had  now  remembered  her  aunt's  injunctions  and 
threats ;  but,  partly  from  a  kind  of  paralysis  caused  by  his 
coolness,  partly  from  its  being  impossible  to  her  nature  to  be 
curt  with  any  one  with  whom  she  was  not  angry,  partly  from 
mere  lack  of  presence  of  mind,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  yet 
feeling  she  ought  to  run  to  the  house,  what  should  she  do  but 
drop  down  again  on  the  very  spot  whence  she  had  been  scared  ! 
Instantly  Tom  threw  himself  on  the  grass  at  her  feet,  and 
there  lay,  looking  up  at  her  with  eyes  of  humble  admiration. 

Confused  and  troubled,  she  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves 
of  her  book.  She  supposed  afterward  she  must  have  asked 
him  why  he  stared  at  her  so,  for  the  next  thing  she  remem- 
bered was  hearing  him  say  : 

"  I  can't  help  it.     You  are  so  lovely  ! " 

"Please  don't  talk  such  nonsense  to  me,"  she  rejoined. 
"  I  am  not  lovely,  and  I  know  it.  What  is  not  true  can  not 
please  anybody." 

She  spoke  a  little  angrily  now. 

"I  speak  the  truth,"  said  Tom,  quietly  and  earnestly.. 
"  Why  should  you  think  I  do  not  ?  " 

" Because  nobody  ever  said  so  before." 

"Then  it  is  quite  time  somebody  should  say  so,"  returned 


THE  OAK.  67 

Tom,  changing  his  tone.  "  It  may  be  a  painful  fact,  but  even 
ladies  ought  to  be  told  the  truth,  and  learn  to  bear  it.  To  say 
you  are  not  lovely  would  be  a  downright  lie." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  to  me  about  myself ! "  said 
Letty,  feeling  confused  and  improper,  but  not  altogether  dis- 
pleased that  it  was  possible  for  such  a  mistake  to  be  made. 
"  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  myself.  It  makes  me  so  uncom- 
fortable !    I  am  sure  it  isn't  right :  is  it,  now,  Mr.  Helmer  ? " 

As  she  ended,  the  tears  rose  in  her  eyes,  partly  from  unana- 
lyzed  uneasiness  at  the  position  in  which  she  found  herself  and 
the  turn  the  talk  had  taken,  partly  from  the  discomfort  of  con- 
scious disobedience.     But  still  she  did  not  move. 

"I  am  very  sorry  if  I  have  vexed  you,"  said  Tom,  seeing 
her  evident  trouble.  "  I  can't  think  how  I've  done  it.  I  know 
I  didn't  mean  to  ;  and  I  promise  you  not  to  say  a  word  of  the 
kind  again — if  I  can  help  it.  But  tell  me,  Letty,"  he  went  on 
again,  changing  in  tone  and  look  and  manner,  and  calling  her 
by  her  name  with  such  simplicity  that  she  never  even  noticed 
it,  "do  tell  me  what  you  are  reading,  and  that  will  keep  me 
from  talking  about  you — not  from — the  other  thing,  you 
know." 

"There!"  said  Letty,  almost  crossly,  handing  him  her 
book,  and  pointing  to  the-  sonnet,  as  she  rose  to  go. 

Tom  took  the  book,  and  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  had  never 
read  the  poem,  for  Milton  had  not  been  one  of  his  masters. 
He  stood  devouring  it.  He  was  doing  his  best  to  lay  hold  of 
it  quickly,  for  there  Letty  stood,  with  her  hand  held  out  to 
take  the  book  again,  ready  upon  its  restoration  to  go  at  once. 
Silent  and  motionless,  to  all  appearance  unhasting,  he  read  and 
reread.  -  Letty  was  restless,  and  growing  quite  impatient ;  but 
still  .Tom  read,  a  smile  slow-spreading  from  his  eyes  over  his 
face ;  he  was  taking  possession  of  the  poem,  he  would  have 
said.  But  the  shades  and  kinds  and  degrees  of  possession  are 
innumerable  ;  and  not  until  we  downright  love  a  thing,  can  we 
know  we  understand  it,  or  rightly  call  it  our  own  ;  Tom  only 
admired  this  one  ;  it  was  all  he  was  capable  of  in  regard  to  such 
at  present.  Had  the  whim  for  acquainting  himself  with  it 
seized  him  in  his  own  study,  he  would  have  satisfied  it  with  a 


68  MARY  MARSTOK 

far  more  superficial  interview  ;  but  the  presence  of  the  girl, 
with  those  eyes  fixed  on  him  as  he  read — his  mind's  eye  saw 
them — was  for  the  moment  an  enlargement  of  his  being,  whose 
phase  to  himself  was  a  consciousness  of  ignorance. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  poem,"  he  said  at  last,  quite  honestly  ; 
and,  raising  his  eyes,  he  looked  straight  in  hers.  There  is 
hardly  a  limit  to  the  knowledge  and  sympathy  a  man  may  have 
in  respect  of  the  finest  things,  and  yet  be  a  fool.  Sympathy  is 
not  harmony.  A  man  may  be  a  poet  even,  and  speak  with  the 
tongue  of  an  angel,  and  yet  be  a  very  bad  fool. 

"  I  am  sure  it  must  be  a  beautiful  poem,"  said  Letty  ;  ''but 
I  have  hardly  got  a  hold  of  it  yet."  And  she  stretched  her 
hand  a  little  farther,  as  if  to  proceed  with  its  appropriation. 

But  Tom  was  not  yet  prepared  to  part  with  the  book.  He 
proceeded  instead,  in  fluent  speech  and  not  inappropriate  lan- 
guage, to  set  forth,  not  the  power  of  the  poem — that  he  both 
took  and  left  as  a  matter  of  course — but  the  beauty  of  those 
phrases,  and  the  turns  of  those  expressions,  which  particularly 
pleased  him — nor  failing  to  remark  that,  according  to  the  strict 
laws  of  English  verse,  there  was  in  it  one  bad  rhyme. 

That  point  Letty  begged  him  to  explain,  thus  leading  Tom 
to  an  exposition  of  the  laws  of  rhyme,  in  which,  as  far  as  Eng- 
lish was  concerned,  he  happened  to  be  something  of  an  expert, 
partly  from  an  early  habit  of  scribbling  in  ladies'  albums. 
About  these  surface  affairs,  Godfrey,  understanding  them  bet- 
ter and  valuing  them  more  than  Tom,  had  yet  taught  Letty  no- 
thing, judging  it  premature  to  teach  polishing  before  carving  ; 
and  hence  this  little  display  of  knowledge  on  the  part  of  Tom 
impressed  Letty  more  than  was  adequate — so  much,  indeed, 
that  she  began  to  regard  him  as  a  sage,  and  a  compeer  of  her 
cousin  Godfrey.  Question  followed  question,  and  answer  fol- 
lowed answer,  Letty  feeling  all  the  time  she  must  go,  yet 
standing  and  standing,  like  one  in  a  dream,  who  thinks  he  can 
not,  and  certainly  does  not  break  its  spell — for  in  the  act  only 
is  the  ability  and  the  deed  born.  Besides,  was  she  to  go  away 
and  leave  her  beautiful  book  in  his  hand  ?  What  would  God- 
frey think  if  she  did  ?  Again  and  again  she  stretched  out  her 
own  to  take  it,  but,  although  he  saw  the  motion,  he  held  on  to 


TEE  OAK.  69 

the  book  as  to  his  best  anchor,  hurriedly  turned  its  leaves  by 
fits,  and  searching  for  something  more  to  his  mind  than  any- 
thing of  Milton's.     Suddenly  his  face  brightened. 

"Ah!"  he  said — and  remained  a  moment  silent,  reading. 
"  I  don't  wonder,"  he  resumed,  "  at  your  admiration  of  Milton. 
He's  very  grand,  of  course,  and  very  musical,  too ;  but  one  can't 
be  listening  to  an  organ  always.  Not  that  I  prefer  merry  mu- 
sic ;  that  must  be  inferior,  for  the  tone  of  all  the  beauty  in 
the  world  is  sad."  Much  Tom  Helmer  knew  of  beauty  or  sad- 
ness either  !  but  ignorance  is  no  reason  with  a  fool  for  holding 
his  tongue.  "But  there  is  the  violin,  now  ! — that  can  be  as 
sad  as  any  organ,  without  being  so  ponderous.  Hear  this,  now  ! 
This  is  the  violin  after  the  organ — played  as  only  a  master  can  ! " 

With  this  preamble,  he  read  a  song  of  Shelley's,  and  read  it 
well,  for  he  had  a  good  ear  for  rhythm  and  cadence,  and  prided 
himself  on  his  reading  of  poetry. 

Now  the  path  to  Letty's  heart  through  her  intellect  was 
neither  open  nor  well  trodden  ;  but  the  song  in  question  was  a 
winged  one,  and  flew  straight  thither  ;  there  was  something  in 
the  tone  of  it  that  suited  the  pitch  of  her  spirit-chamber. 
And,  if  Letty's  heart  was  not  easily  found,  it  was  the  readier  to 
confess  itself  when  found.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and 
through  those  tears  Tom  looked  large  and  injured.  "  He  must 
be  a  poet  himself  to  read  poetry  like  that ! "  she  said  to  herself, 
and  felt  thoroughly  assured  that  her  aunt  had  wronged  him 
greatly.  "Some  people  scorn  poetry  like  sin,"  she  said  again. 
"I  used  myself  to  think  it  was  only  for  children,  until  Cousin 
Godfrey  taught  me  differently." 

As  thus  her  thoughts  went  on  interweaving  themselves  with 
the  music,  all  at  once  the  song  came  to  an  end.  Tom  closed 
the  book,  handed  it  to  her,  said,  "  Good  morning,  Miss  Lovel," 
and  ran  down  the  rent  in  the  ha-ha ;  and,  before  Letty  could 
come  to  herself,  she  heard  the  soft  thunder  of  hoofs  on  the 
grass.  She  ran  to  the  edge,  and,  looking  over,  saw  Tom  on  his 
bay  mare,  at  full  gallop  across  the  field.  She  watched  him  as 
he  neared  the  hedge  and  ditch  that  bounded  it,  saw  him  go 
flying  over,  and  lost  sight  of  him  behind  a  hazel-copse.  Slowly, 
then,  she  turned,  and  slowly  she  went  back  to  the  house  and 


70  MART  MARSTOK 

up  to  her  room,  vaguely  aware  that  a  wind  had  begun  to  blow 
in  her  atmosphere,  although  only  the  sound  of  it  had  yet 
reached  her. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

.  CONFUSION. 

Then  first,  and  from  that  moment,  Letty's  troubles  began. 
Up  to  this  point  neither  she  herself  nor  another  could  array 
troublous  accusation  or  uneasy  thought  against  her ;  and  now 
she  began  to  feel  like  a  very  target,  which  exists  but  to  receive 
the  piercing  of  arrows.  At  first  sight,  and  if  we  do  not  look  a 
long  way  ahead  of  what  people  stupidly  regard  as  the  end  when 
it  is  only  an  horizon,  it  seems  hard  that  so  much  we  call  evil, 
and  so  much  that  is  evil,  should  result  from  that  unavoidable, 
blameless,  foreordained,  preconstituted,  and  essential  attraction 
which  is  the  law  of  nature,  that  is  the  will  of  God,  between 
man  and  woman.  Even  if  Letty  had  fallen  in  love  with  Tom 
at  first  sight,  who  dares  have  the  assurance  to  blame  her  ?  who 
will  dare  to  say  that  Tom  was  blameworthy  in  seeking  the 
society  and  friendship,  even  the  love,  of  a  woman  whom  in  all 
sincerity  he  admired,  or  for  using  his  wits  to  get  into  her  pres- 
ence, and  detain  her  a  little  in  his  company  ?  Reasons  there 
are,  infinitely  deeper  than  any  philosopher  has  yet  fathomed, 
or  is  likely  to  fathom,  why  a  youth  such  as  he — foolish,  indeed, 
but  not  foolish  in  this — and  a  sweet  and  blameless  girl  such  as 
Letty,  should  exchange  regards  of  admiration  and  wonder. 
That  which  thus  moves  them,  and  goes  on  to  draw  them  closer 
and  closer,  comes  with  them  from  the  very  source  of  their 
being,  and  is  as  reverend  as  it  is  lovely,  rooted  in  all  the  gentle 
potencies  and  sweet  glories  of  creation,  and  not  unworthily 
watered  with  all  the  tears  of  agony  and  ecstasy  shed  by  lovers 
since  the  creation  of  the  world.  What  it  is,  I  can  not  tell ;  I 
only  know  it  is  not  that  which  the  young  fool  calls  it,  still  less 
that  which  the  old  sinner  thinks  it. 


CONFUSION.  71 

As  to  Letty's  disobedience  of  her  aunt's  extravagant  orders 
concerning  Tom,  I  must  leave  that  to  the  judgment  of  the  just, 
reminding  them  that  she  was  taken  by  surprise,  and  that,  be- 
sides, it  was  next  to  impossible  to  obey  them.  But  Letty  found 
herself  very  uncomfortable,  because  there  now  was  that  to  be 
known  of  her,  the  knowledge  of  which  would  highly  displease 
her  aunt — for  which  very  reason,  if  for  no  other,  ought  she 
not  to  tell  her  all  ?  On  the  other  hand,  when  she  recalled  how 
unkindly,  how  unjustly  her  aunt  had  spoken,  when  she  con- 
fessed her  new  acquaintance,  it  became  to  her  a  question 
whether  in  very  deed  she  must  tell  her  all  that  had  passed  that 
afternoon.  There  was  no  smallest  hope  of  any  recognition  of 
the  act,  surely  more  hard  than  incumbent,  but  severity  and 
unreason  ;  must  she  let  the  thing  out  of  her  hands,  and  yield 
herself  a  helpless  prey — and  that  for  good  to  none  ?  Concern- 
ing Mrs.  "Wardour,  she  reasoned  justly  :  she  who  is  even  once 
unjust  can  not  complain  if  the  like  is  expected  of  her  again. 

But,  supposing  it  remained  Letty's  duty  to  acquaint  her 
aunt  with  what  had  taken  place,  and  not  forgetting  that,  as 
one  of  the  old  people,  I  have  to  render  account  of  the  young 
that  come  after  me,  and  must  be  careful  over  their  lovely  dig- 
nities and  fair  duties,  I  yet  make  haste  to  assert  that  the  old 
people,  who  make  it  hard  for  the  young  people  to  do  right, 
may  be  twice  as  much  to  blame  as  those  whom  they  arraign  for 
a  concealment  whose  very  heart  is  the  dread  of  their  known 
selfishness,  fierceness,  and  injustice.  If  children  have  to  obey 
their  parents  or  guardians,  those  parents  and  guardians  are 
over  them  in  the  name  of  God,  and  they  must  look  to  it :  if 
in  the  name  of  God  they  act  the  devil,  that  will  not  prove  a 
light  thing  for  their  answer.  The  causing  of  the  little  ones  to 
offend  hangs  a  fearful  woe  about  the  neck  of  the  causer.  It 
were  a  hard,  as  well  as  a  needless  task,  seeing  there  is  One  who 
judges,  to  set  forth  how  far  the  child  is  to  blame  as  toward  the 
parent,  where  the  parent  first  of  all  is  utterly  wrong,  yea  out 
of  true  relation,  toward  the  child.  Not,  therefore,  is  the  child 
free  ;  obligation  remains — modified,  it  may  be,  but  how  diffi- 
cult, alas,  to  fulfill !  And,  whether  Letty  and  such  as  act  like 
her  are  excusable  or  not  in  keeping  attentions  paid  them  a  se- 


f2  MARY  MARSTOK 

Bret,  this  sorrow  for  the  good  ones  of  them  certainly  remains, 
that,  next  to  a  crime,  a  secret  is  the  heaviest  as  well  as  the 
most  awkward  of  burdens  to  carry.  It  has  to  be  carried  always, 
and  all  about.  From  morning  to  night  it  hurts  in  tenderest 
parts,  and  from  night  to  morning  hurts  everywhere.  At  any 
expense,  let  there  be  openness.  Take  courage,  my  child,  and 
speak  out.  Dare  to  speak,  I  say,  and  that  will  give  you  strength 
to  resist,  should  disobedience  become  a  duty.  Letty's  first  false 
step  was  here  :  she  said  to  herself  /  can  not,  and  did  not.  She 
lacked  courage — a  want  in  her  case  not  much  to  be  wondered 
at,  but  much  to  be  deplored,  for  courage  of  the  true  sort  is  just 
as  needful  to  the  character  of  a  woman  as  of  a  man.  Had  she 
spoken,  she  might  have  heard  true  things  of  Tom,  sufficient  so 
to  alter  her  opinion  of  him  as,  at  this  early  stage  of  their  inter- 
course, to  alter  the  set  of  her  feelings,  which  now  was  straight 
for  him.  It  may  be  such  an  exercise  of  courage  would  have 
rendered  the  troubles  that  were  now  to  follow  unnecessary  to 
her  development.  For  lack  of  it,  she  went  about  from  that 
time  with  the  haunting  consciousness  that  she  was  one  who 
might  be  found  out ;  that  she  was  guilty  of  what  would  go  a 
good  way  to  justify  the  hard  words  she  had  so  resented.  Al- 
ready the  secret  had  begun  to  work  conscious  woe.  She  con- 
trived, however,  to  quiet  herself  a  little  with  the  idea,  rather 
than  the  resolve,  that,  as  soon  as  Godfrey  came  home,  she 
would  tell  him  all,  confessing,  too,  that  she  had  not  the  courage 
to  tell  his  mother.  She  was  sure,  she  said  to  herself,  he  would 
forgive  her,  would  set  her  at  peace  with  herself,  and  be  unfair 
neither  to  Mr.  Helmer  nor  to  her.  In  the  mean  time  she  would 
take  care — and  this  was  a  real  resolve,  not  a  mere  act  contem- 
plated in  the  future — not  to  go  where  she  might  meet  him 
again.  Nor  was  the  resolve  the  less  genuine  that,  with  the 
very  making  of  it,  rose  the  memory  of  that  delightful  hour 
more  enticing  than  ever.  How  beautifully,  and  with  what 
feeling,  he  read  the  lovely  song  !  With  what  appreciation  had 
he  not  expounded  Milton's  beautiful  poem  !  Not  yet  was  she 
capable  of  bethinking  herself  that  it  was  but  on  this  phrase  and 
on  that  he  had  dwelt,  on  this  and  on  that  line  and  rhythm, 
enforcing  their  loveliness  of  sound  and  shape  ;  while  the  poem, 


CONFUSION.  73 

the  really  important  thing,  the  drift  of  the  whole — it  was  her 
own  heart  and  conscience  that  revealed  that  to  her,  not  the  ex- 
position of  one  who  at  best  could  understand  it  only  with  his 
brain.  She  kept  to  her  resolve,  nevertheless ;  and,  although 
Tom,  leaving  his  horse  now  here  now  there,  to  avoid  attracting 
attention,  almost  every  day  visited  the  oak,  he  looked  in  vain 
for  the  light  of  her  approach.  Disappointment  increased  his 
longing  :  what  would  he  not  have  given  to  see  once  more  one 
of  those  exquisite  smiles  break  out  in  its  perfect  blossom  !  He 
kept  going  and  going — haunted  the  oak,  sure  of  some  blessed 
chance  at  last.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  followed 
one  idea  for  a  whole  fortnight. 

At  length  Godfrey  came.  But,  although  all  the  time  he 
was  away  Letty  had  retained  and  contemplated  with  tolerable 
calmness  the  idea  of  making  her  confession  to  him,  the  moment 
she  saw  him  she  felt  such  confession  impossible.  It  was  a  sad 
discovery  to  her.  Hitherto  Godfrey,  and  especially  of  late,  had 
been  the  chief  source  of  the  peace  and  interest  of  her  life,  that 
portion  of  her  life,  namely,  to  which  all  the  rest  of  it  looked 
as  its  sky,  its  overhanging  betterness — and  now  she  felt  before 
him  like  a  culprit :  she  had  done  what  he  might  be  displeased 
with.  Nay,  would  that  were  all !  for  she  felt  like  a  hypocrite  : 
she  had  done  that  which  she  could  not  confess.  Again  and 
again,  while  Godfrey  was  away,  she  had  flattered  herself  that 
the  help  the  objectionable  Tom  had  given  her  with  her  task 
would  at  once  recommend  him  to  Godfrey's  favorable  regard ; 
but  now  that  she  looked  in  Godfrey's  face,  she  was  aware — she 
did  not  know  why,  but  she  was  aware  it  would  not  be  so.  Be- 
sides, she  plainly  saw  that  the  same  fact  would,  almost  of 
necessity,  lead  him  to  imagine  there  had  been  much  more 
between  them  than  was  the  case  ;  and  she  argued  with  herself, 
that,  now  there  was  nothing,  now  that  everything  was  over,  it 
would  be  a  pity  if,  because  of  what  she  could  not  help,  and 
what  would  never  be  again,  there  should  arise  anything,  how- 
ever small,  of  a  misunderstanding  between  her  cousin  Godfrey 
and  her. 

The  moment  Godfrey  saw  her,  he  knew  that  something  was 
■  the  matter  ;  but  there  had  been  that  going  on  in  him  which 
4 


74  MART  MARSTON. 

put  him  on  a  false  track  for  the  explanation.  Scarcely  had  he, 
on  his  departure  for  London,  turned  his  back  on  Thornwick, 
ere  he  found  he  was  leaving  one  whom  yet  he  could  not  leave 
behind  him.  Every  hour  of  his  absence  he  found  his  thoughts 
with  the  sweet  face  and  ministering  hands  of  his  humble  pupil. 
Therewith,  however,  it  was  nowise  revealed  to  him  that  he  was 
in  love  with  her.  He  thought  of  her  only  as  his  younger  sis- 
ter, loving,  clinging,  obedient.  So  dear  was  she  to  him,  he 
thought,  that  he  would  rejoice  to  secure  her  happiness  at  any 
cost  to  himself.  Any  cost  ?  he  asked — and  reflected.  Yes, 
he  answered  himself — even  the  cost  of  giving  her  to  a  better 
man.  The  thing  was  sure  to  come,  he  thought — nor  thought 
without  a  keen  pang,  scarcely  eased  by  the  dignity  of  the  self- 
denial  that  would  yield  her  with  a  smile.  But  such  a  crisis  was 
far  away,  and  there  was  no  necessity  for  now  contemplating 
it.  Indeed,  there  was  no  certainty  it  would  ever  arrive  ;  it  was 
only  a  possibility.  The  child  was  not  beautiful,  although  to 
him  she  was  lovely,  and,  being  also  penniless,  was  therefore  not 
likely  to  attract  attention  ;  while,  if  her  being  unfolded  under 
the  genial  influences  he  was  doing  his  best  to  make  powerful 
upon  her,  if  she  grew  aware  that  by  them  her  life  was  enlarg- 
ing and  being  tenfold  enriched,  it  was  possible  she  might  not 
be  ready  to  fall  in  love,  and  leave  Thorn Avick.  He  must  be 
careful,  however,  he  said  to  himself,  quite  plainly  now,  that 
his  behavior  should  lead  her  into  no  error.  He  was  not  afraid 
she  might  fall  in  love  with  him  ;  he  was  not  so  full  of  himself 
as  that ;  but  he  recoiled  from  the  idea,  as  from  a  humiliation, 
that  she  might  imagine  him  in  love  with  her.  It  was  not 
merely  that  he  had  loved  once  for  all,  and,  once  deceived  and 
forsaken,  would  love  no  more  ;  but  it  was  not  for  him,  a  man 
of  thirty  years,  to  bow  beneath  the  yoke  of  a  girl  of  eighteen — 
a  child  in  everything  except  outward  growth.  Not  for  a 
moment  would  he  be  imagined  by  her  a  courtier  for  her 
favor. 

Thus,  even  in  the  heart  of  one  so  far  above  ordinary  men 
as  Godfrey,  and  that  in  respect  of  the  sweetest  Of  child-maidens, 
pride  had  its  evil  place  ;  and  no  good  ever  comes  of  pride,  for 
it  is  the  meanest  of  mean  things,  and  no  one  but  he  who  is  full 


confusion:  75 

of  it  thinks  it  grand.  For  its  sake  this  wise  man  was  firmly 
resolved  on  caution  ;  and  so,  when  at  last  they  met,  it  was  no 
more  with  that  abandon  of  simple  pleasure  with  which  he  had 
been  wont  to  receive  her  when  she  came  knocking  at  the  door  of 
his  study,  bearing  clear  question  or  formless  perplexity  ;  and  his 
restraint  would  of  itself  have  been  enough  to  make  Letty,  whose 
heart  was  now  beating  in  a  very  thicket  of  nerves,  at  once  feel 
it  impossible  to  carry  out  her  intent — impossible  to  confess  to 
him  any  more  than  to  his  mother  ;  while  Godfrey,  on  his  part, 
perceiving  her  manifest  shyness  and  unwonted  embarrassment, 
attributed  them  altogether  to  his  own  wisely  guarded  behavior, 
and,  seeing  therein  no  sign  of  loss  of  influence,  continued  his 
caution.  Thus  the  pride,  which  is  of  man,  mingled  with  the 
love,  which  is  of  God,  and  polluted  it.  From  that  hour  he  be- 
gan to  lord  it  over  the  girl ;  and  this  change  in  his  behavior 
immediately  reacted  on  himself,  in  the  obscure  perception  that 
there  might  be  danger  to  her  in  continued  freedom  of  inter- 
course :  he  must,  therefore,  he  concluded,  order  the  way  for 
both  ;  he  must  take  care  of  her  as  well  as  of  himself.  But  was 
it  consistent  with  this  resolve  that  he  should,  for  a  whole 
month,  spend  every  leisure  moment  in  working  at  a  present  for 
her — a  written  marvel  of  neatness  and  legibility  ? 

Again,  by  this  meeting  askance,  as  it  were,  another  disin- 
tegrating force  was  called  into  operation :  the  moment  Letty 
knew  she  could  not  tell  Godfrey,  and  that  therefore  a  wall  had 
arisen  between  him  and  her,  that  moment  woke  in  her  the 
desire,  as  she  had  never  felt  it  before,  to  see  Tom  Helmer. 
She  could  no  longer  bear  to  be  shut  up  in  herself ;  she  must 
see  somebody,  get  near  to  somebody,  talk  to  somebody ;  her 
secret  would  choke  her  otherwise,  would  swell  and  break  her 
heart ;  and  who  was  there  to  think  of  but  Tom — and  Mary 
Marston  ? 

She  had  never  once  gone  to  the  oak  again,  but  she  had  not 
altogether  avoided  a  certain  little  cobwebbed  gable-window  in 
the  garret,  from  which  it  was  visible  ;  neither  had  she  withheld 
her  hands  from  cleaning  a  pane  in  that  window,  that  through 
it  she  might  see  the  oak ;  and  there,  more  than  once  or  twice, 
now  thickening  the  huge  limb,  now  spotting  the  grass  beneath 


76  MARY  MAR8T0K 

it,  she  had  descried  a  dark  object,  which  could  he  nothing  else 
than  Tom  Helmer  on  the  watch  for  herself.  He  must  surely 
he  her  friend,  she  reasoned,  or  how  would  he  care,  day  after 
day,  to  climb  a  tree  to  look  if  she  were  coming — she  who  was 
the  veriest  nobody  in  all  other  eyes  but  his  ?  It  was  so  good  of 
Tom !  She  would  call  him  Tom ;  everybody  else  called  him 
Tom,  and  why  shouldn't  she — to  herself,  when  nobody  was 
near  ?  As  to  Mary  Marston,  she  treated  her  like  a  child  !  When 
she  told  her  that  she  had  met  Tom  at  Durnmelling,  and  how 
kind  he  had  been,  she  looked  as  grave  as  if  it  had  been  wicked 
to  be  civil  to  him ;  and  told  her  in  return  how  he  and  his 
mother  were  always  quarreling  :  that  must  be  his  mother's 
fault,  she  was  sure — it  could  not  be  Tom's  ;  any  one  might  see 
that  at  a  glance  !  His  mother  must  be  something  like  her  aunt ! 
But,  after  that,  how  could  she  tell  Mary  any  more  ?  It  would 
not  be  fair  to  Tom,  for,  like  the  rest,  she  would  certainly  begin 
to  abuse  him.  What  harm  could  come  of  it  ?  and,  if  harm  did, 
how  could  she  help  it !  If  they  had  been  kind  to  her,  she  would 
have  told  them  everything,  but  they  all  frightened  her  so,  she 
could  not  speak.  It  was  not  her  fault  if  Tom  was  the  only 
friend  she  had  !  She  would  ask  his  advice  ;  he  was  sure  to  ad- 
vise her  just  the  right  thing.  He  had  read  that  sonnet  about 
the  wise  virgin  with  such  feeling  and  such  force,  he  must 
know  what  a  girl  ought  to  do,  and  how  she  ought  to  behave  to 
those  who  were  unkind  and  would  not  trust  her. 

Poor  Letty  !  she  had  no  stay,  no  root  in  herself  t  yet.  Well 
do  I  know  not  one  human  being  ought,  even  were  it  possible,  to 
be  enough  for  himself ;  each  of  us  needs  God  and  every  human 
soul  he  has  made,  before  he  has  enough  ;  but  we  ought  each  to 
be  able,  in  the  hope  of  what  is  one  day  to  come,  to  endure  for  a 
time,  not  having  enough.  Letty  was  unblamable  that  she  de- 
sired the  comfort  of  humanity  around  her  soul,  but  I  am  not 
sure  that  she  was  quite  unblamable  in  not  being  fit  to  walk  a 
few  steps  alone,  or  even  to  sit  still  and  expect.  With  all  his 
learning,  Godfrey  had  not  taught  her  what  William  Marston 
had  taught  Mary ;  and  now  her  heart  was  like  a  child  left 
alone  in  a  great  room.  She  had  not  yet  learned  that  we  must 
each  bear  his  own  burden,  and  so  become  able  to  bear  each  the 


THE  HEATH  AND   THE  HUT.  77 

burden  of  the  other.  Poor  friends  we  are,  if  we  are  capable 
only  of  leaning,  and  able  never  to  support. 

But  the  moment  Letty's  heart  had  thus  cried  out  against 
Mary,  came  a  shock,  and  something  else  cried  out  against  her- 
self, telling  her  that  she  was  not  fair  to  her  friend,  and  that 
Mary,  and  no  other,  was  the  proper  person  to  advise  with  in 
this  emergency  of  her  affairs.  She  had  no  right  to  turn  from 
her  because  she  was  a  little  afraid  of  her.  Perhaps  Letty  was 
on  the  point  of  discovering  that  to  be  unable  to  bear  dis- 
approval was  an  unworthy  weakness.  But  in  her  case  it  came 
nowise  of  the  pride  which  blame  stirs  to  resentment,  but 
altogether  of  the  self-depreciation  which  disapproval  rouses  to 
yet  greater  dispiriting.  Praise  was  to  her  a  precious  thing,  in 
part  because  it  made  her  feel  as  if  she  could  go  on  ;  blame,  a 
misery,  in  part  because  it  made  her  feel  as  if  all  was  of  no  use, 
she  never  could  do  anything  right.  She  had  not  yet  learned 
that  the  right  is  the  right,  come  of  praise  or  blame  what  may. 
The  right  will  produce  more  right  and  be  its  own  reward — in 
the  end  a  reward  altogether  infinite,  for  God  will  meet  it  with 
what  is  deeper  than  all  right,  namely,  perfect  love.  But  tlie 
more  Letty  thought,  the  more  she  was  sure  she  must  tell  Mary  ; 
and,  disapprove  as  she  might,  Mary  was  a  very  different  object 
of  alarm  from  either  her  aunt  or  her  cousin  Godfrey. 

The  first  afternoon,  therefore,  on  which  she  thought  her 
aunt  could  spare  her,  she  begged  leave  to  go  and  see  Mary. 
Mrs.  Wardour  yielded  it,  but  not  very  graciously.  She  had, 
indeed,  granted  that  Miss  Marston  was  not  like  other  shop- 
girls, but  she  did  not  favor  the  growth  of  the  intimacy,  and 
liked  Letty's  going  to  her  less  than  Mary's  coming  to  Thorn- 
wick. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   HEATH   AND   THE   HUT. 


Letty  seldom  went  into  the  shop,  except  to  buy,  for  she 
knew  Mr.  Turnbull  would  not  like  it,  and  Mary  did  not 
encourage  it ;  but  now  her  misery  made  her  bold.     Mary  saw 


78  MARY  MARSTOK 

the  trouble  in  her  eyes,  and  without;  a  moment's  hesitation 
drew  her  inside  the  counter,  and  thence  into  the  house,  where 
she  led  the  way  to  her  own  room,  up  stairs  and  through  pas- 
sages which  were  indeed  lanes  through  masses  of  merchandise, 
like  those  cut  through  deep-drifted  snow.  It  was  shop  all 
over  the  house,  till  they  came  to  the  door  of  Mary's  chamber, 
which,  opening  from  such  surroundings,  had  upon  Letty  much 
the  effect  of  a  chapel — and  rightly,  for  it  was  a  room  not  un- 
used to  haying  its  door  shut.  It  was  small,  and  plainly  but 
daintily  furnished,  with  no  foolish  excess  of  the  small  refine- 
ments on  which  girls  so  often  set  value,  spending  large  time 
on  what  it  would  be  waste  to  buy  :  only  they  have  to  kill  the 
weary  captive  they  know  not  how  to  redeem,  for  he  troubles 
them  with  his  moans. 

"Sit  down,  Letty  dear,  and  tell  me  what  is  the  matter," 
said  Mary,  placing  her  friend  in  a  chintz-covered  straw  chair, 
and  seating  herself  beside  her. 

Letty  burst  into  tears,  and  sat  sobbing. 

"  Come,  dear,  tell  me  all  about  it,"  insisted  Mary.  "  If 
you  don't  make  haste,  they  will  be  calling  me." 

Letty  could  not  speak. 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Mary;  "you  must  stop 
with  me  to-night,  that  we  may  have  time  to  talk  it  over.  You 
sit  here  and  amuse  yourself  as  well  as  you  can  till  the  shop  is 
shut,  and  then  we  shall  have  such  a  talk  !  I  will  send  your 
tea  up  here.     Beenie  will  be  good  to  you." 

"Oh,  but,  indeed,  I  can't!"  sobbed  Letty;  "my  aunt 
would  never  forgive  me." 

"  You  silly  child !  I  never  meant  to  keep  you  without 
sending  to  your  aunt  to  let  her  know." 

"She  won't  let  me  stop,"  persisted  Letty. 

"We  will  try  her,"  said  Mary,  confidently;  and,  without 
more  ado,  left  Letty,  and,  going  to  her  desk  in  the  shop,  wrote 
a  note  to  Mrs.  Wardour.  This  she  gave  to  Beenie  to  send  by 
special  messenger  to  Thornwick ;  after  which,  she  told  her, 
she  must  take  up  a  nice  tea  to  Miss  Lovel  in  her  bed- 
room. Mary  then  resumed  her  place  in  the  shop,  under  the 
frowns  and  side-glances  of  Turnbull,  and  the  smile  of  her 


TEE  EEATE  AND   TEE  EUT.  79 

father,  pleased  at  her  reappearance  from  even  such  a  short  ab- 
sence. 

But  the  return,  in  an  hour  or  so,  of  the  boy-messenger, 
whom  Beenie  had  taken  care  not  to  pay  beforehand,  destroyed 
the  hope  of  a  pleasant  evening ;  for  he  brought  a  note  from 
Mrs.  Wardour,  absolutely  refusing  to  allow  Letty  to  spend  the 
night  from  home  :  she  must  return  immediately,  so  as  to  get 
in  before  dark. 

The  rare  anger  flushed  Letty's  cheek  and  flashed  from  her 
eyes  as  she  read  ;  for,  in  addition  to  the  prime  annoyance,  her 
aunt's  note  was  addressed  to  her  and  not  to  Mary,  to  whom  it 
did  not  even  allude.  Mary  only  smiled  inwardly  at  this,  but 
Letty  felt  deeply  hurt,  and  her  displeasure  with  her  aunt 
added  yet  a  shade  to  the  dimness  of  her  judgment.  She  rose 
at  once. 

"  Will  you  not  tell  me  first  what  is  troubling  you,  Letty  ?  " 
said  Mary. 

"No,  dear,  not  now,"  replied  Letty,  caring  a  good  deal 
less  about  the  right  ordering  of  her  way  than  when  she  entered 
the  house.  Why  should  she  care,  she  said  to  herself — but  it 
was  her  anger  speaking  in  her — how  she  behaved,  when  she 
was  treated  so  abominably  ? 

"Then  I  will  come  and  see  you  on  Sunday,"  said  Mary; 
"  and  then  we  shall  manage  to  have  our  talk." 

They  kissed  and  parted — Letty  unaware  that  she  had  given 
her  friend  a  less  warm  kiss  than  usual.  There  can  hardly  be 
a  plainer  proof  of  the  lowness  of  our  nature,  until  we  have  laid 
hold  of  the  higher  nature  that  belongs  to  us  by  birthright, 
than  this,  that  even  a  just  anger  tends  to  make  us  unjust  and 
unkind  :  Letty  was  angry  with  every  person  and  thing  at 
Thornwick,  and  unkind  to  her  best  friend,  for  whose  sake  in 
part  she  was  angry.  With  glowing  cheeks,  tear-filled  eyes, 
and  indignant  heart  she  set  out  on  her  walk  home. 

It  was  a  still  evening,  with  a  great  cloud  rising  in  the 
southwest ;  from  which,  as  the  sun  drew  near  the  horizon,  a 
thin  veil  stretched  over  the  sky  between,  and  a  few  drops  came 
scattering.  This  was  in  harmony  with  Letty's  mood.  Her 
soul  was  clouded,  and  her  heaven  was  only  a  place  for  the  rain 


80  MARY  MARSTON. 

to  fall  from.  Annoyance,  doubt,  her  new  sense  of  constraint, 
and  a  wide-reaching,  undefined  feeling  of  homelessness,  all 
wrought  together  to  make  her  mind  a  chaos  out  of  which  mis- 
shapen things  might  rise,  instead  of  an  ordered  world  in  which 
gracious  and  reasonable  shapes  appear.  For  as  the  place  such 
will  be  the  thoughts  that  spring  there  ;  when  all  in  us  is  peace 
divine,  then,  and  not  till  then,  shall  we  think  the  absolutely- 
reasonable.  Alas,  that  by  our  "thoughtlessness  or  unkindness 
we  should  so  often  be  the  cause  of  monster-births,  and  those 
even  in  the  minds  of  the  loved  !  that  we  should  be,  if  but  for 
a  moment,  the  demons  that  deform  a  fair  world  that  loves  us  ! 
Such  was  Mrs.  Wardour,  with  her  worldly  wisdom,  that  day 
to  Letty. 

About  half-way  to  Thornwick,  the  path  crossed  a  little 
heathy  common ;  and  just  as  Letty  left  the  hedge-guarded 
field-side,  and  through  a  gate  stepped,  as  it  were,  afresh  out 
of  doors  on  the  open  common,  the  wind  came  with  a  burst, 
and  brought  the  rain  in  earnest.  It  was  not  yet  very  heavy, 
but  heavy  enough,  with  the  wind  at  its  back,  and  she  with  no 
defense  but  her  parasol,  to  wet  her  thoroughly  before  she 
could  reach  any  shelter,  the  nearest  being  a  solitary,  decrepit 
old  hawthorn-tree,  about  half-way  across  the  common.  She 
bent  her  head  to  the  blast,  and  walked  on.  She  had  no  desire 
for  shelter.  She  would  like  to  get  wet  to  the  skin,  take  a  vio- 
lent cold,  go  into  a  consumption,  and  die  in  a  fortnight.  The 
wind  whistled  about  her  bonnet,  dashed  the  rain-drops  clang- 
ing on  the  drum-tight  silk  of  her  parasol,  and  made  of  her 
skirts  fetters  and  chains.  She  could  hardly  get  along,  and 
was  just  going  to  take  down  her  parasol,  when  suddenly, 
where  was  neither  house  nor  hedge  nor  tree,  came  a  lull.  For 
from  behind,  over  head  and  parasol,  had  come  an  umbrella, 
and  now  came  a  voice  and  an  audible  sigh  of  pleasure. 

"  I  little  thought  when  I  left  home  this  afternoon,"  said  the 
voice,  "that  I  should  have  such  a  happiness  before  night !" 

At  the  sound  of  the  voice  Letty  gave  a  cry,  which  ran 
through  all  the  shapes  of  alarm,  of  surprise,  of  delight ;  and  it 
was  not  much  of  a  cry  either. 

"0  Tom  !"  she  said,  and  clasped  the  arm  that  held  the 


THE  HEATH  AND   THE  HUT  81 

umbrella.  How  her  foolish,  heart  bounded  !  Here  was  help 
when  she  had  sought  none,  and  where  least  she  had  hoped  for 
any  !  Her  aunt  would  have  her  run  from  under  the  umbrella 
at  once,  no  doubt,  but  she  would  do  as  she  pleased  this  time. 
Here  was  Tom  getting  as  wet  as  a  spaniel  for  her  sake,  and 
counting  it  a  happiness  !  Oh,  to  have  a  friend  like  that — all  to 
herself  !  She  would  not  reject  such  a  friend  for  all  the  aunts 
in  creation.  Besides,  it  was  her  aunt's  own  fault ;  if  she  had 
let  her  stay  with  Mary,  she  would  not  have  met  Tom.  It  was 
not  her  doing ;  she  would  take  what  was  sent  her,  and  enjoy 
it !  But,  at  the  sound  of  her  own  voice  calling  him  Tom,  the 
blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks,  and  she  felt  their  glow  in  the  heart 
of  the  chill-beating  rain. 

"  What  a  night  for  you  to  be  out  in,  Letty,"  responded 
Tom,  taking  instant  advantage  of  the  right  she  had  given  him. 
"How  lucky  it  was  I  chose  the  right  place  to  watch  in  at  last ! 
I  was  sure,  if  only  I  persevered  long  enough,  I.  should  be  re- 
warded." 

"  Have  you  been  waiting  for  me  long  ?  "  asked  Letty,  with 
foolish  acceptance. 

"A  fortnight  and  a  day,"  answered  Tom,  with  a  laugh. 
"  But  I  would  wait  a  long  year  for  such  another  chance  as 
this."  And  he  pressed  to  his  side  the  hand  upon  his  arm. 
"  Fate  is  indeed  kind  to-night." 

"Hardly  in  the  weather,"  said  Letty,  fast  recovering  her 
spirits. 

"Not  ?"  said  Tom,  with  seeming  pretense  of  indignation. 
"Let  any  one  but  yourself  dare  to  say  a  word  against  the 
weather  of  this  night,  and  he  will  have  me  to  reckon  with. 
It's  the  sweetest  weather  I  ever  walked  in.  I  will  write  a 
glorious  song  in  praise  of  showery  gusts  and  bare  com- 
mons." 

"  Do,"  said  Letty,  careful  not  to  say  Tom  this  time,  but 
unwilling  to  revert  to  Mr.  Helmer,  "and  mind  you  bring  in 
the  umbrella." 

"  That  I  will !     See  if  I  don't  ! "  answered  Tom. 

"  And  make  it  real  poetry  too  ? "  asked  Letty,  looking 
archly  round  the  stick  of  the  umbrella. 


82  MART  MARSTOK 

"  Thou  shalt  thyself  he  the  lovely  critic,  fair  maiden  ! " 
answered  Tom. 

And  thus  they  were  already  on  the  footing  of  somewhere 
about  a  two  years'  acquaintance — thanks  to  the  smart  of  ill- 
usage  in  Letty's  bosom,  the  gayety  in  Tom's,  the  sudden  wild 
weather,  the  quiet  heath,  the  gathering  shades,  and  the  um- 
brella !  The  wind  blew  cold,  the  air  was  dank  and  chill,  the 
west  was  a  low  gleam  of  wet  yellow,  and  the  rain  shot  stinging 
in  their  faces  ;  but  Letty  cared  quite  as  little  for  it  all  as  Tom 
did,  for  her  heart,  growing  warm  with  the  comfort  of  the 
friendly  presence,  felt  like  a  banished  soul  that  has  found 
a  world  ;  and  a  joy  as  of  endless  deliverance  pervaded  her 
being.  And  neither  to  her  nor  to  Tom  must  we  deny  our 
sympathy  in  the  pleasure  which,  walking  over  a  bog,  they 
drew  from  the  flowers  that  mantled  awful  deeps ;  they  will 
not  sink  until  they  stop,  and  begin  to  build  their  house  upon 
it.  Within  that  umbrella,  hovered,  and  glided  with  them, 
an  atmosphere  of  bliss  and  peace  and  rose-odors.  In  the 
midst  of  storm  and  coming  darkness,  it  closed  warm  and 
genial  around  the  pair.  Tom  meditated  no  guile,  and  Letty 
had  no  deceit  in  her.  Yet  was  Tom  no  true  man,  or  sweet 
Letty  much  of  a  woman.  Neither  of  them  was  yet  of  the 
truth. 

At  the  other  side  of  the  heath,  almost  upon  the  path,  stood 
a  deserted  hut ;  door  and  window  were  gone,  but  the  roof 
remained :  just  as  they  neared  it,  the  wind  fell,  and  the  rain 
began  to  come  down  in  earnest. 

"Let  us  go  in  here  for  a  moment,"  said  Tom,  "and  get  our 
breath  for  a  new  fight." 

Letty  said  nothing,  but  Tom  felt  she  was  reluctant. 

"Not  a  soul  will  pass  to-night,"  he  said.  "We  mustn't 
get  wet  to  the  skin." 

Letty  felt,  or  fancied,  refusal  would  be  more  unmaidenly 
than  consent,  and  allowed  Tom  to  lead  her  in.  And  there, 
within  those  dismal  walls,  the  twilight  sinking  into  a  cheerless 
night  of  rain,  encouraged  by  the  very  dreariness  and  obscurity 
of  the  place,  she  told  Tom  the  trouble  of  mind  their  interview 
at  the  oak  was  causing  her,  saying  that  now  it  would  be  worse 


THE  EEATH  AND   THE  HUT.  83 

than  ever,  for  it  was  altogether  impossible  to  confess  that  she 
had  met  him  yet  again  that  evening. 

So  now,  indeed,  Letty's  foot  was  in  the  snare  :  she  had  a 
secret  with  Tom.  Every  time  she  saw  him,  liberty  had  with- 
drawn a  pace.  There  was  no  room  for  confession  now.  If  a 
secret  held  be  a  burden,  a  secret  shared  is  a  fetter.  But  Tom's 
heart  rejoiced  within  him. 

"  Let  me  see  ! — How  old  are  you,  Letty  ?  "  he  asked  gayly. 

"Eighteen  past,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  you  are  fit  to  judge  for  yourself.  You  ain't  a  child, 
and  they  are  not  your  father  and  mother.  What  right  have 
they  to  know  everything  you  do  ?  I  wouldn't  let  any  such 
nonsense  trouble  me." 

"But  they  give  me  everything,  you  know — food,  and 
clothes,  and  all." 

"Ah,  just  so  !"  returned  Tom.  "And  what  do  you  do 
for  them  ?  " 

"Nothing." 

"Why  !  what  are  you  about  all  day  ?  " 

Letty  gave  him  a  brief  sketch  of  her  day. 

"And  you  cair  that  nothing?"  exclaimed  Tom.  "Ain't 
that  enough  to  pay  for  your  food  and  your  clothes  ?  Does  it 
want  your  private  affairs  to  make  up  the  difference  ?  "  Or  have 
you  to  pay  for  your  food  and  clothes  with  your  very  thoughts  ? 
■ — What  pocket-money  do  they  give  you  ?  " 

"Pocket-money?"  returned  Letty,  as  if  she  did  not  quite 
know  what  he  meant. 

"Money  to  do  what  you  like  with,"  explained  Tom. 

Letty  thought  for  a  moment. 

"Cousin  Godfrey  gave  me  a  sovereign  last  Christmas,"  she 
answered.     "I  have  got  ten  shillings  of  it  yet." 

Tom  burst  into  a  merry  laugh. 

"  Oh,  you  dear  creature  ! "  he  cried.  "  What  a  sweet  slave 
you  make  !  The  lowest  servant  on  the  farm  gets  wages,  and 
you  get  none  :  yet  you  think  yourself  bound  to  tell  them  every- 
thing, because  they  give  you  food  and  clothes,  and  a  sovereign 
last  Christmas  ! " 

Here  a  gentle  displeasure  arose  in  the  heart  of  the  girl, 


84  MARY  MARSTOK 

hitherto  so  contented  and  grateful.  She  did  not  care  about 
money,  but  she  resented  the  claim  her  conscience  made  for 
them  upon  her  confidence.  She  did  not  reflect  that  such  claim 
had  never  been  made  by  them  ;  nor  that  the  fact  that  she  felt 
the  claim,  proved  that  she  had  been  treated,  in  some  measure 
at  least,  like  a  daughter  of  the  house. 

"  Why,"  continued  Tom,  "it  is  mere,  downright,  rank 
slavery  !  You  are  walking  to  the  sound  of  your  own  chains. 
Of  course,  you  are  not  to  do  anything  wrong,  but  you  are  not 
bound  not  to  do  anything  they  may  happen  not  to  like." 

In  this  style  he  went  on,  believing  he  spoke  the  truth,  and 
was  teaching  her  to  show  a  proper  spirit.  His  heart,  as  well  as 
Godfrey's,  was  uplifted,  to  think  he  had  this  lovely  creature  to 
direct  and  superintend  :  through  her  sweet  confidence,  he  had 
to  set  her  free  from  unjust  oppression  taking  advantage  of  her 
simplicity.  But  in  very  truth  he  was  giving  her  just  the  in- 
struction that  goes  to  make  a  slave — the  slave  in  heart,  who 
serves  without  devotion,  and  serves  unworthily.  Yet  in  this, 
and  much  more  such  poverty-stricken,  swine-husk  argument, 
Letty  seemed  to  hear  a  gospel  of  liberty,  and  scarcely  needed 
the  following  injunctions  of  Tom,  to  make*  a  firm  resolve  not 
to  utter  a  word  concerning  him.  To  do  so  would  be  treacher- 
ous to  him,  and  Avould  be  to  forfeit  the  liberty  he  had  taught 
her  !  Thus,  from  the  neglect  of  a  real  duty,  she  became  the 
slave  of  a  false  one. 

"If  you  do,"  Tom  had  said,  "I  shall  never  see  you  again  : 
they  will  set  every  one  about  the  place  to  watch  you,  like  so 
many  cats  after  one  poor  little  white  mousey,  and  on  the  least 
suspicion,  one  way  or  another,  you  will  be  gobbled  up,  as  sure 
as  fate,  before  you  can  get  to  me  to  take  care  of  you." 

Letty  looked  up  at  him  gratefully. 

"  But  what  could  you  do  for  me  if  I  did  ?  "  she  asked.  "  If 
my  aunt  were  to  turn  me  out  of  the  house,  your  mother  would 
not  take  me  in  ! " 

Letty  was  not  herself  now  ;  she  was  herself  and  Tom — by 
no  means  a  healthful  combination. 

"My  mother  won't  be  mistress  long,"  answered  Tom. 
"  She  will  have  to  do  as  I  bid  her  when  I  am  one-and-twenty, 


TEE  EEATE  AND   TEE  EVT.  85 

and  that  will  be  in  a  few  months."  Tom  did  not  know  the 
terms  of  his  father's  will.  "In  the  mean  time  we  must  keep 
quiet,  you  know.  I  don't  want  a  row — we  have  plenty  of  row 
as  it  is.  You  may  be  sure  /  shall  tell  no  one  how  I  spent  the 
happiest  hour  of  my  life.  How  little  circumstance  has  to  do 
with  bliss  ! "  he  added,  with  a  philosophical  sigh.  "  Here  we 
are  in  a  wretched  hut,  roared  and  rained  upon  by  an  equinoctial 
tempest,  and  I  am  in  paradise  ! " 

"I  must  go  home,"  said  Letty,  recalled  to  a  sense  of  her 
situation,  yet  set  trembling  with  pleasure,  by  his  words.  "  See, 
it  is  getting  quite  dark  ! " 

"Don't  be  afraid,  my  white  bird,"  said  Tom.  "I  will  see 
you  home.  But  surely  you  are  as  well  here  as  there  anyhow  ! 
Who  knows  when  we  shall  meet  again  ?  Don't  be  alarmed  ; 
I'm  not  going  to  ask  you  to  meet  me  anywhere  ;  I  know  your 
sweet  innocence  would  make  you  fancy  it  wrong,  and  then  you 
would  be  unhappy.  But  that  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not 
fall  in  with  you  when  I  have  the  chance.  It  is  very  hard  that 
two  people  who  understand  each  other  can  not  be  friends  with- 
out other  people  shoving  in  their  ugly  beaks  !  "Where  is  the 
harm  to  any  one  if  we  choose  to  have  a  few  minutes'  talk  to- 
gether now  and  then  ?  " 

"  Where,  indeed  ?  "  responded  Letty  shyly. 

A  tall  shadow — no  shadow  either,  but  the  very  person  of 
Godfrey  Wardour — passed  the  opening  in  the  wall  of  the  hut 
where  once  had  been  a  window,  and  the  gloom  it  cast  into  the 
dusk  within  was  awful  and  ominous.  The  moment  he  saw  it, 
Tom  threw  himself  flat  on  the  clay  floor  of  the  hut.  Godfrey 
stopped  at  the  doorless  entrance,  and  stood  on  the  threshold, 
bending  his  head  to  clear  the  lintel  as  he  looked  in.  Letty's 
heart  seemed  to  vanish  from  her  body.  A  strange  feeling 
shook  her,  as  if  some  mysterious  transformation  were  about  to 
pass  upon  her  whole  frame,  and  she  were  about  to  be  changed 
into  some  one  of  the  lower  animals.  The  question,  where  was 
the  harm,  late  so  triumphantly  put,  seemed  to  have  no  heart 
in  it  now.  For  a  moment  that  had  to  Letty  the  air  of  an  geon, 
Godfrey  stood  peering. 

Not  a  little  to  his  displeasure,  he  had  heard  from  his  moth- 


86  MART  MARSTOK 

er  of  her  refusal  to  grant  Letty's  request,  and  had  set  out  in 
the  hope  of  meeting  and  helping  her  home,  for  by  that  time  it 
had  begun  to  rain,  and  looked  stormy. 

In  the  darkness  he  saw  something  white,  and,  as  he  gazed,  it 
grew  to  Letty's  face.  The  strange,  scared,  ghastly  expression 
of  it  bewildered  him. 

Letty  became  aware  that  Godfrey  did  not  recognize  her  at 
first,  and  the  hope  sprung  up  in  her  heart  that  he  might  not 
see  Tom  at  all ;  but  she  could  not  utter  a  word,  and  stood  re- 
turning Godfrey's  gaze  like  one  fascinated  with  terror.  Pres- 
ently her  heart  began  again  to  bear  witness  in  violent  piston- 
strokes. 

"Is  it  really  you,  my  child  ?"  said  Godfrey,  in  an  uncer- 
tain voice — for,  if  it  was  indeed  she,  why  did  she  not  speak, 
and  why  did  she  look  so  scared  at  the  sight  of  him  ? 

"  0  Cousin  Godfrey  ! "  gasped  Letty,  then  first  finding  a 
little  voice,  "  you  gave  me  such  a  start ! " 

"  Why  should  you  be  so  startled  at  seeing  me,  Let- 
ty ?"  he  returned.  "Am  I  such  a  monster  of  the  darkness, 
then?"' 

"  You  came  all  at  once,"  replied  Letty,  gathering  courage 
from  the  playfulness  of  his  tone,  "  and  blocked  up  the  door 
with  your  shoulders,  so  that  not  a  ray  of  light  fell  on  your 
face  ;  and  how  was  I  to  know  it  was  you,  Cousin  Godfrey  ?  " 

From  a  paleness  grayer  than  death,  her  face  was  now  red  as 
fire  ;  it  was  the  burning  of  the  lie  inside  her.  She  felt  all  a  lie 
now  :  there  was  the  good  that  Tom  had  brought  her !  But 
the  gloom  was  friendly.  With  a' resolution  new  to  herself,  she 
went  up  to  Godfrey  and  said  : 

"If  you  are  going  to  the  town,  let  me  walk  with  you, 
Cousin  Godfrey.     It  is  getting  so  dark." 

She  felt  as  if  an  evil  necessity — a  thing  in  which  man  must 
not  believe — were  driving  her.  But  the  poor  child  was  not 
half  so  deceitful  inside  as  the  words  seemed  to  her  issuing  from 
her  lips.  It  was  such  a  relief  to  be  assured  Godfrey  had  not 
seen  Tom,  that  she  felt  as  if  she  could  forego  the  sight  of  Tom 
for  evermore.  Her  better  feelings  rushed  back,  her  old  con- 
fidence and  reverence ;  and,  in  the  altogether  nebulo-chaotic 


THE  HEATH  AND   THE  HUT.  87 

condition  of  her  mind,  she  felt  as  if,  in  his  turn,  Godfrey  had 
just  appeared  for  her  deliverance. 

"lam  not  going  to  the  to"wn,  Letty,"  he  answered.  "I 
came  to  meet  you,  and  we  will  go  home  together.  It  is  no  use 
waiting  for  the  rain  to  stop,  and  about  as  little  to  put  up  an 
umbrella.  I  have  brought  your  waterproof,  and  we  must  just 
take  it  as  it  comes. " 

The  wind  was  up  again,  and  the  next  moment  Letty,  on 
Godfrey's  arm,  was  struggling  with  the  same  storm  she  had  so 
lately  encountered  leaning  on  Tom's,  while  Tom  was  only  too 
glad  to  be  left  alone  on  the  floor  of  the  dismal  hut,  whence  he 
did  not  venture  to  rise  for  some  time,  lest  any  the  most  im- 
probable thing  should  happen,  to  bring  Mr.  Wardour  back. 
He  was  as  mortally  afraid  of  being  discovered  as  any  young 
thief  in  a  farmer's  orchard. 

He  had  a  dreary  walk  back  to  the  public  house  where  he 
had  stabled  his  horse ;  but  he  trudged  it  cheerfully,  brooding 
with  delight  on  Letty's  beauty,  and  her  lovely  confidence  in 
Tom  Helmer — a  personage  whom  he  had  begun  to  feel  nobody 
trusted  as  he  deserved. 

"  Poor  child  ! "  he  said  to  himself — he  as  well  as  Godfrey 
patronized  her — ' '  what  a  doleful  walk  home  she  will  have  with 
that  stuck-up  old  bachelor  fellow  ! " 

Nor,  indeed,  was  it  a  very  comfortable  walk  home  she  had, 
although  Godfrey  talked  all  the  way,  as  well  as  a  head- wind, 
full  of  rain,  would  permit.  A  few  weeks  ago  she  would  have 
thought  the  walk  and  the  talk  and  everything  delightful.  But 
after  Tom's  airy  converse  on  the  same  level  with  herself,  God- 
frey's sounded  indeed  wise — very  wise — but  dull,  so  dull  !  It 
is  true  the  suspicion,  hardly  awake  enough  to  be  troublous,  lay 
somewhere  in  her,  that  in  Godfrey's  talk  there  was  a  value  of 
which  in  Tom's  there  was  nothing  ;  but  then  it  was  not  wis- 
dom Letty  was  in  want  of,  she  thought,  but  somebody  to  be 
kind  to  her — as  kind  as  she  should  like  ;  somebody,  though 
she  did  not  say  this  even  to  herself,  to  pet  her  a  little,  and 
humor  her,  and  not  require  too  much  of  her.  Physically, 
Letty  was  not  in  the  least  lazy,  but  she  did  not  enjoy  being 
forced  to  think  much.     She  could  think,  and  to  no  very  poor 


88  MARY  MARSTOK 

purpose  either,  but  as  yet  she  had  no  hunger  for  the  possible 
results  of  thought,  and  how  then  could  she  care  to  think  ? 
Seated  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  weary  and  wet  and  self- accused, 
she  recalled,  and  pondered,  and,  after  her  faculty,  compared 
the  two  scarce  comparable  men,  until  the  voice  of  her  aunt, 
calling  to  her  to  make  haste  and  come  to  tea,  made  her  start 
up,  and  in  haste  remove  her  drenched  garments.  The  old 
lady  imagined  from  her  delay  she  was  out  of  temper  because 
she  had  sent  for  her  home ;  but,  when  she  appeared,  she  was 
so  ready,  so  attentive,  and  so  quick  to  help,  that,  a  little  re- 
pentant, she  said  to  herself,  "  Eeally  the  girl  is  very  good-na- 
tured ! "  as  if  then  first  she  discovered  the  fact.  But  Thorn- 
wick  could  never  more  to  Letty  feel  like  a  home  !  JSTot  at 
peace  with  herself,  she  could  not  be  in  rhythmic  relation  with 
her  surroundings. 

The  next  day,  the  old  manner  of  life  began  again ;  but, 
alas  !  it  was  only  the  old  manner,  it  was  not  the  old  life  ;  that 
was  gone  for  ever,  like  an  old  sunset,  or  an  old  song,  and  could 
not  be  recalled  from  the  dead.  We  may  have  better,  but  we 
can  not  have  the  same.  God  only  can  have  the  same.  God 
grant  our  new  may  inwrap  our  old  !  Lettj7  labored  more  than 
ever  to  lay  hold  of  the  lessons,  to  his  mind  so  genial,  in  hers 
bringing  forth  more  labor  than  fruit,  which  Godfrey  set  before 
her,  but  success  seemed  further  from  her  than  ever.  She  was 
now  all  the  time  aware,  of  a  weight,  an  oppression,  which 
seemed  to  belong  to  the  task,  but  was  in  reality  her  self-dis- 
satisfaction. She  was  like  a  poor  Hebrew  set  to  make  brick 
without  straw,  but  the  Egyptian  that  had  brought  her  into 
bondage  was  the  feebleness  of  her  own  will.  Now  and  then 
would  come  a  break — a  glow  of  beauty,  a  gleam  of  truth  ;  for 
a  moment  she  would  forget  herself ;  for  a  moment  a  shining 
pool  would  flash  on  the  clouded  sea  of  her  life  ;  presently  her 
heart  would  send  up  a  fresh  mist,  the  light  would  fade  and 
vanish,  and  the  sea  lie  dusky  and  sad.  Not  seldom  reproach- 
ing herself  with  having  given  Tom  cause  to  think  unjustly  of 
her  guardians,  she  would  try  harder  than  ever  to  please  her 
aunt ;  and  the  small  personal  services  she  had  been  in  the  way 
of  rendering  to  Godfrey  were  now  ministered  with  the  care  01 


TEE  EEATE  AND   TEE  EUT.  89 

a  devotee.  Not  once  should  lie  miss  a  button  from  a  shirt  or 
find  a  sock  insufficiently  darned  !  But  even  this  conscience  of 
service  did  not  make  her  happy.  Duty  itself  could  not,  where 
faith  was  wanting,  where  the  heart  was  not  at  one  with  those 
to  whom  the  hands  were  servants.  She  would  cry  herself  to 
sleep,  and  rise  early  to  be  sad.  She  resolved  at  last,  and  seemed 
to  gain  strength  and  some  peace  from  the  resolve,  to  do  all  in 
her  power  to  avoid  Tom  ;  and  certainly  not  once  did  she  try 
to  meet  him.     Not  with  him,  she  could  resist  him. 

Thus  it  went  on.  Her  aunt  saw  that  something  was  amiss, 
and  watched  her,  without  attempt  at  concealment,  which  added 
greatly  to  Letty's  discomfort.  But  the  only  thing  her  keen- 
ness discovered  was,  that  the  girl  was  f orwardly  eager  to  please 
Godfrey,  and  the  conviction  began  to  grow  that  she  was  in- 
dulging the  impudent  presumption  of  being  in  love  with  her 
peerless  cousin.  Then  maternal  indignation  misled  her  into 
the  folly  of  dropping  hints  that  should  put  Godfrey  on  his 
guard  :  men  were  so  easily  taken  in  by  designing  girls  !  She 
did  not  say  much  ;  but  she  said  a  good  deal  too  much  for  her 
own  ends,  when  she  caused  her  fancy  to  present  itself  to  the 
mind  of  Godfrey.  '  ' 

He  had  not  failed,  no  one  could  have  failed,  to  observe  the 
dejection  that  had  for  some  time  ruled  every  feature  and  ex- 
pression of  the  girl's  countenance.  Again  and  again  he  had 
asked  himself  whether  she  might  not  be  fancying  him  displeased 
with  her ;  for  he  knew  well  that,  becoming  more  and  more 
aware  of  what  he  counted  his  danger,  he  had  kept  of  late  stricter 
guard  than  ever  over  his  behavior  ;  but,  watching  her  now  with 
the  misleading  light  of  his  mother's  lantern,  nor  quite  unwill- 
ing, I  am  bound  to  confess,  that  the  thing  might  be  as  she  im- 
plied, he  became  by  degrees  convinced  that  she  was  right. 

So  far  as  this,  perhaps,  the  man  was  pardonable — with  a 
mother  to  cause  him  to  err.  But,  for  what  followed,  punish- 
ment was  inevitable.  He  had  a  true  and  strong  affection  for 
the  girl,  but  it  was  an  affection  as  from  conscious  high  to  low  ; 
an  affection,  that  is,  not  unmixed  with  patronage — a  bad  thing 
— far  worse  than  it  can  seem  to  the  heart  that  indulges  it.  He 
still  recoiled,  therefore,  from  the  idea  of  such  a  leveling  of  him- 


90  MARY  MARSTOK 

self  as  he  counted  it  would  be  to  show  her  anything  like  the 
loye  of  a  lover.  All  pride  is  more  or  less  mean,  but  one  pride 
may  be  grander  than  another,  and  Godfrey  was  not  herein  proud 
in  any  grand  way.  Good  fellow  as  he  was,  he  thought  much 
too  much  of  himself ;  and,  unconsciously  comparing  it  with 
Letty's,  altogether  overvalued  his  worth.  Stranger  than  any 
bedfellow  misery  ever  acquainted  a  man  withal,  are  the  heart- 
fellows  he  carries  about  with  him.  Noble  as  in  many  ways 
Wardour  was,  and  kind  as,  to  Letty,  he  thought  he  always  was, 
he  was  not  generous  toward  her ;  he  was  not  Prince  Arthur  ^ 
"the  Knight  of  Magnificence."  Something  may  perhaps  be 
allowed  on  the  score  of  the  early  experience  because  of  which 
he  had  resolved — pridefully,  it  is  true — never  again  to  come 
under  the  power  of  a  woman  ;  it  was  unworthy  of  any  man, 
he  said,  to  place  his  peace  in  a  hand  which  could  thenceforth 
wring  his  whole  being  with  agony.  But,  had  he  now  brought 
himself  as  severely  to  task  as  he  ought,  he  would  have  discov- 
ered that  he  was  making  no  objection  to  the  little  girl's  loving 
him,  only  he  would  not  love  her  in  the  same  way  in  return  ; 
and  where  was  the  honor  in  that  ?  Doubtless,  had  he  thus 
examined  himself,  he  would  have  thought  he  meant  to  take 
care  that  the  child's  love  for  him  should  not  go  too  far — should 
not  endanger  her  peace  ;  and  that,  if  the  thing  should  give  her 
trouble,  it  should  be  his  business  to  comfort  her  in  it ;  but  de- 
scend he  would  not — would  not  yet — from  his  pedestal,  to  meet 
the  silly  thing  on  the  level  ground  of  humanity,  and  the  re- 
lation of  the  man  and  the  woman  !  Something  like  this,  I  say, 
he  would  have  found  in  his  heart,  horrid  as  it  reads.  That 
heart's  action  was  not  even,  was  not  healthy. 

When  in  London  he  had  ransacked  Holywell  Street  for 
dainty  editions  of  so  many  of  his  favorite  authors  as  would 
make  quite  a  little  library  for  Letty ;  and  on  his  return,  had 
commissioned  a  cabinet-maker  in  Testbridge  to  put  together  a 
small  set  of  book-shelves,  after  his  own  design,  measured  and 
fitted  to  receive  them  exactly ;  these  shelves,  now  ready,  he 
fastened  to  her  wall  one  afternoon  when  she  was  out  of  the 
way,  and  filled  them  with  the  books.  He  never  doubted  that, 
the  moment  she  saw  them,  she  would  rush  to  find  him  ;  and, 


TEE  EEATE  AND   TEE  EUT.  91 

when  he  had  done,  retreated,  therefore,  to  his  study,  there  to 
sit  in  readiness  to  receive  her  and  her  gratitude  with  gentle 
kindness ;  when  he  would  express  the  hope  that  she  would 
make  real  friends  of  the  spirits  whose  quintessence  he  had  thus 
stored  to  her  hand ;  and  would  introduce  her  to  what  Milton 
says  in  his  "  Areopagitica  "  concerning  good  books.  There,  for 
her  sake,  then,  he  sat,  in  mental  state,  expectant ;  but  sat  in 
vain.  When  they  met  at  tea,  then,  in  the  presence  of  his 
mother,  with  embarrassment  and  broken  utterance,  she  did 
thank  him. 

"0  Cousin  Godfrey!"  she  said,  and  ceased;  then,  "It 
is  so  much  more  than  I  deserve,  I  dare  hardly  thank  you." 
After  another  pause,  with  a  shake  of  her  pretty  head,  as  if  she 
would  toss  aside  her  hair,  or  the  tears  out  of  her  eyes,  "I  don't 
know — I  seem  to  have  no  right  to  thank  you  ;  I  ought  not  to 
have  such  a  splendid  present.  Indeed,  I  don't  deserve  it.  You 
would  not  give  it  me  if  you  knew  how  naughty  I  am." 

These  broken  sentences  were  by  both  mother  and  son  alto- 
gether misinterpreted.  The  mother,  now  hearing  for  the  first 
time  of  Godfrey's  present,  was  filled  with  jealousy,  and  began 
to  revolve  thoughts  of  dire  disquietude  :  was  the  hussy  actually 
beginning  to  gain  her  point,  and  steal  from  her  the  heart  of 
her  son  ?  Was  it  in  the  girl's  blood  to  wrong  her  ?  The  father 
of  her  had  wronged  her  :  she  would  take  care  his  daughter 
should  not !  She  had  taken  a  viper  to  her  bosom  !  Who  was 
she,  to  wriggle  herself  into  an  old  family  and  property  ?  Had 
she  been  born  to  such  things  ?  She  would  teach  her  who  she 
was  !  When  dependents  began  to  presume,  it  was  time  they 
had  a  lesson. 

Letty  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  the  books  and  their  shelves; 
the  very  beauty  of  the  bindings  was  a  reproach  to  her.  From 
the  misery  of  this  fresh  burden,  this  new  stirring  of  her  sense 
of  hypocrisy,  she  began  to  wish  herself  anywhere  out  of  the 
house,  and  away  from  Thornwick.  It  was  torture  to  her  to 
think  how  she  had  deceived  Cousin  Godfrey  at  the  hut ;  and 
throughout  the  night,  across  the  darkness,  she  felt,  though 
she  could  not  see,  the  books  gazing  at  her,  like  an  embodied 
conscience,  from  the  wall  of  her  chamber.     Twenty  times  that 


92  MART  MARSTOK 

night  she  started  from  her  sleep,  saying,  "  I  will  go  where 
they  shall  never  see  me  " ;  then  rose  with  the  dawn,  and  set 
herself  to  the  hardest  work  she  conld  find. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  they  all  went  to  church. 
Letty  felt  that  Tom  was  there,  too,  but  she  never  raised  her 
eyes  to  glance  at  him. 

He  had  been  looking  out  in  vain  for  a  sight  of  her — now 
'from  the  oak-tree,  now  from  his  bay  mare's  back,  as  he  haunted 
the  roads  about  Thorn  wick,  now  from  the  window  of  the  little 
public-house  where  the  path  across  the  fields  joined  the  main 
road  to  Testbridge  :  but  not  once  had  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her. 

He  had  seated  himself  where  he  could  not  fail  to  see  her 
if  she  were  in  the  Thornwick  pew.  How  ill  she  looked  !  His 
heart  swelled  with  indignation. 

" They  are  cruel  to  her,"  he  said;  "that  is  plain.  Poor 
girl,  they  will  kill  her  !  She  is  a  pearl  in  the  oyster-maw  of 
Thornwick.     This  will  never  do  ;  I  must  see  her  somehow  ! " 

If  at  this  crisis  Letty  had  but  had  a  real  friend  to 
strengthen  and  advise  her,  much  suffering  might  have  been 
spared  her,  for  never  was  there  a  more  teachable  girl.  She 
was,  indeed,  only  too  ready  to  be  advised,  too  ready  to  accept 
for  true  whatever  friendship  offered  itself.  None  but  the 
friend  who  will  strengthen  us  to  stand,  is  worthy  of  the  name. 
Such  a  friend  Mary  would  have  been,  but  Letty  did  not  yet 
know  what  she  needed.  The  unrest  of  her  conscience  made 
her  shrink  from  one  who  was  sure  to  side  with  that  conscience, 
and  help  it  to  trouble  her.  It  was  sympathy  Letty  longed  for, 
not  strength,  and  therefore  she  was  afraid  of  Mary.  She 
came  to  see  her,  as  she  had  promised,  the  Sunday  after  that 
disastrous  visit ;  but  the  weather  was  still  uncertain  and 
gusty,  and  she  found  both  her  and  Godfrey  in  the  parlor ;  nor  did 
Letty  give  her  a  chance  of  speaking  to  her  alone.  The  poor 
girl  had  now  far  more  on  her  mind  that  needed  help  than  then 
when  she  went  in  search  of  it,  but  she  would  seek  it  no  more 
from  her  !  For,  the  more  she  thought,  the  surer  she  felt 
that  Mary  woiild  insist  on  her  making  a  disclosure  of  the  whole 
foolish  business  to  Mrs.   Wardour,  and  would  admit  neither 


WILLIAM  MARSTON.  93 

her  own  fear  nor  her  aunt's  harshness  as  reason  sufficient  to 
the  contrary.  "  More  than  that,"  thought  Letty,  "  I  can't 
be  sure  she  wouldn't  go,  in  spite  of  me,  and  tell  her  all  about 
it !  and  what  would  become  of  me  then  ?  I  should  be  worse 
off  a  hundred  times  than  if  I  had  told  her  myself." 


CHAPTEE  XI. 

WILLIAM    MAKSTON. 

The  clouds  were  gathering  over  Mary,  too — deep  and  dark, 
but  of  altogether  another  kind  from  those  that  enveloped 
Letty  :  no  troubles  are  for  one  moment  to  be  compared  with 
those  that  come  of  the  wrongness,  even  if  it  be  not  wicked- 
ness, that  is  our  own.  Some  clouds  rise  from  stagnant  bogs 
and  fens  ;  others  from  ^the  wide,  clean,  large  ocean.  But 
either  kind,  thank  God,  will  serve  the  angels  to  come  down  by. 
In  the  old  stories  of  celestial  visitants  the  clouds  do  much  ; 
and  it  is  oftenest  of  all  down  the  misty  slope  of  griefs  and 
pains  and  fears,  that  the  most  powerful  joy  slides  into  the 
hearts  of  men  and  women  and  children.  Beautiful  are  the 
feet  of  the  men  of  science  on  the  dust-heaps  of  the  world,  but 
the  patient  heart  will  yield  a  myriad  times  greater  thanks  for 
the  clouds  that  give  foothold  to  the  shining  angels. 

Few  people  were  interested  in  William  Marston.  Of  those 
who  saw  him  in  the  shop,  most  turned  from  him  to  his  jolly 
partner.  •  But  a  few  there  were  who,  some  by  instinct,  some 
from  experience,  did  look  for  him  behind  the  counter,  and 
were  disappointed  if  he  were  absent :  most  of  them  had  a  re- 
pugnance to  the  over-complaisant  Turnbull.  Yet  Marston 
was  the  one  whom  the  wise  world  of  Testbridge  called  the 
hypocrite,  and  Turnbull  was  the  plain-spoken,  agreeable,  hon- 
est man  of  the  world,  pretending  to  be  no  better  either  than 
himself  or  than  other  people.  The  few  friends,  however,  that 
Marston  had,  loved  him  as  not  many  are  loved  :  they  knew 
him,  not  as  he  seemed  to  the  careless  eye,  but  as  he  was. 


94  MARY  MARSTON. 

Never  did  man  do  less  either  to  conceal  or  to  manifest  him- 
self. He  was  all  taken  up  with  what  he  loved,  and  that  was 
neither  himself  nor  his.  business.  These  friends  knew  that, 
when  the  far-away  look  was  on  him,  when  his  face  was  paler, 
and  he  seemed  unaware  of  person  or  thing  about  him,  he  was 
not  indifferent  to  their  presence,  or  careless  of  their  existence  ; 
it  was  only  that  his  thoughts  were  out,  like  heavenly  bees, 
foraging ;  a  word  of  direct  address  brought  him  back  in  a 
moment,  and  his  soul  would  return  to  them  with  a  smile.  He 
stood  as  one  on  the  keystone  of  a  bridge,  and  held  communion 
now  with  these,  now  with  those  :  on  this  side  the  river  and  on 
that,  both  companies  were  his  own. 

He  was  not  a  man  of  much  education,  in  the  vulgar  use  of 
the  word  ;  but  he  was  a  good  way  on  in  that  education,  for 
the  sake  of  which,  and  for  no  other  without  it,  we  are  here  in 
our  consciousness — the  education  which,  once  begun,  will, 
soon  or  slow,  lead  knowledge  captive,  and  teaches  nothing  that 
has  to  be  unlearned  again,  because  every  flower  of  it  scatters 
the  seed  of  one  better  than  itself.  The  main  secret  of  his 
progress,  the  secret  of  all  wisdom,  was,  that  with  him  action 
was  the  beginning  and  end  of  thought.  He  was  not  one  of 
that  cloud  of  false  witnesses,  who,  calling  themselves  Chris- 
tians, take  no  trouble  for  the  end  for  which  Christ  was  born, 
namely,  their  salvation  from  unrighteousness — a  class  that  may 
be  divided  into  the  insipid  and  the  offensive,  both  regardless  of 
obedience,  the  former  indifferent  to,  the  latter  contentious  for 
doctrine. 

It  may  well  seem  strange  that  such  a  man  should  have 
gone  into  business  with  such  another  as  John  Turnbull ;  but 
the  latter  had  been  growing  more  and  more  common,  while 
Marston  had  been  growing  more  and  more  refined.  Still  from 
the  first  it  was  an  unequal  yoking  of  believer  with  unbeliever 
—-just  as  certainly,  although  not  with  quite  such  wretched 
results,  as  would  have  been  the  marriage  of  Mary  Marston  and 
George  Turnbull.  And  it  had  been  a  great  trial :  punishment 
had  not  been  spared — with  best  results  in  patience  and  purifi- 
cation ;  for  so  are  our  false  steps  turned  back  to  good  by  the 
evil  to  which  they  lead  us, 


WILLIAM  MABSTON.  95 

Turnbull  was  ready  to  take  every  safe  advantage  to  be 
gained  from  his  partner's  comparative  carelessness  about 
money.  He  drew  a  larger  proportion  of  the  profits  than  be- 
longed to  his  share  in  the  capital,  justifying  himself  on  the 
ground  that  he  had  a  much  larger  family,  did  more  of  the 
business,  and  had  to  keej)  up  the  standing  of  the  firm.  He 
made  him  pay  more  than  was  reasonable  for  the  small  part  of 
the  house  yielded  from  storage  to  the  accommodation  of  him, 
his  daughter,  and  their  servant,  notwithstanding  that,  if  they 
had  not  lived  there,  some  one  must  have  been  paid  to  do  so. 
Far  more  than  this,  careless  of  his  partner's  rights,  and  insen- 
sible to  his  interests,  he  had  for  some  time  been  risking  the 
whole  affair  by  private  speculations.  After  all,  Marston  was 
the  safer  man  of  business,  even  from  the  worldly  point  of  view. 
Alone,  it  is  true,  he  would  hardly  have  made  money,  but  he 
would  have  got  through,  and  would  have  left  his  daughter  the 
means  of  getting  through  also  ;  for  he  would  have  left  her  in 
possession  of  her  own  peace  and  the  confidence  of  her  friends, 
which  will  always  prove  enough  for  those  who  confess  them- 
selves to  be  strangers  and  pilgrims  on  the  earth — those  who 
regard  it  as  a  grand  staircase  they  have  to  climb,  not  a  plain 
on  which  to  build  their  houses  and  plant  their  vineyards. 

As  to  the  peculiar  doctrines  of  the  sect  to  which  he  had 
joined  himself,  right  or  wrong  in  themselves,  Marston,  after 
having  complied  with  what  seemed  to  him  the  letter  of  the  law 
concerning  baptism,  gave  himself  no  further  trouble.  He  had 
for  a  long  time  known — for,  by  the  power  of  the  life  in  him, 
he  had  gathered  from  the  Scriptures  the  finest  of  the  wheat, 
where  so  many  of  every  sect,  great  church  and  little  church, 
gather  only  the  husks  and  chaff — that  the  only  baptism  of  any 
avail  is  the  washing  of  the  fresh  birth,  and  the  making  new 
by  that  breath  of  God,  which,  breathed  into  man's  nostrils, 
first  made  of  him  a  living  soul.  When  a  man  knows  this,  po- 
tentially he  knoAVS  all  things.  But,  just  therefore,  he  did  not 
stand  high  with  his  sect  any  more  than  with  his  customers, 
though — a  fact  which  Marston  himself  never  suspected — the 
influence  of  his  position  had  made  them  choose  him  for  a 
deacon. 


96  MA  BY  MABSTOK 

One  evening  George  had  had  leave  to  go  home  early,  be- 
cause of  a  party  at  the  villa,  as  the  Turnbulls  always  called 
their  house  ;  and,  the  boy  having  also  for  some  cause  got  leave 
of  absence,  Mr.  Marston  was  left  to  shut  the  shop  himself, 
Mary,  who  was  in  some  respects  the  stronger  of  the  two,  assist- 
ing him.  When  he  had  put  up  the  last  shutter,  he  dropped 
his  arms  with  a  weary  sigh.  Mary,  who  had  been  fastening 
the  bolts  inside,  met  him  in  the  doorway. 

"You  look  worn  out,  father,"  she  said.  "Come  and  lie 
down,  and  I  will  read  to  you." 

"I  will,  my  dear,"  he  answered.  "I  don't  feel  quite  my- 
self to-night.  The  seasons  tell  upon  me  now.  I  suppose  the 
stuff  of  my  tabernacle  is  wearing  thin." 

Mary  cast  an  anxious  look  at  him,  for,  though  never  a 
strong  man,  he  seldom  complained.  But  she  said  nothing, 
and,  hoping  a  good  cup  of  tea  would  restore  him,  led  the  way 
through  the  dark  shop  to  the  door  communicating  with  the 
house.  Often  as  she  had  passed  through  it  thus,  the  picture  of 
it  as  she  saw  it  that  night  was  the  only  one  almost  that  returned 
to  her  afterward  :  a  few  vague  streaks  of  light,  from  the  cracks 
of  the  shutters,  fed  the  rich,  warm  gloom  of  the  place  ;  one  of 
them  fell  upon  a  piece  of  orange-colored  cotton  stuff,  which 
blazed  in  the  dark. 

Arrived  at  their  little  sitting-room  at  the  top  of  the  stair, 
she  hastened  to  shake  up  the  pillows  and  make  the  sofa  com- 
fortable for  him.  He  lay  down,  and  she  covered  him  with  a 
rug  ;  then  ran  to  her  room  for  a  book,  and  read  to  him  while 
Beenie  was  getting  the  tea.  She  chose  a  poem  with  which 
Mr.  Wardour  had  made  her  acquainted  almost  the  last  time 
she  was  at  Thornwick — that  was  several  weeks  ago  now,  for 
plainly  Letty  was  not  so  glad  to  see  her  as  she  used  to  be — it 
was  Milton's  little  ode  "  On  Time,"  written  for  inscription  on 
a  clock — one  of  the  grandest  of  small  poems.  Her  father 
knew  next  to  nothing  of  literature ;  having  pondered  his  New 
Testament,  however,  for  thirty  years,  he  was  capable  of  under- 
standing Milton's  best — to  the  childlike  mind  the  best  is  al- 
ways simplest  and  easiest — not  unfrequently  the  only  kind  it 
can  lay  hold  of.     When  she  ended,  he  made  her  read  it  again, 


WILLIAM  MARSTOW.  97 

and  then  again ;  not  until  she  had  read  it  six  times  did  he 
seem  content.  And  every  time  she  read  it,  Mary  fpund  her- 
self understanding  it  better.  It  was  gradually  growing  very 
precious. 

Her  father  had  made  no  remark  ;  but,  when  she  lifted  her 
eyes  from  the  sixth  reading,  she  saw  that  his  face  shone,  and, 
as  the  last  words  left  her  lips,  he  took  up  the  line  like  a  re- 
frain, and  repeated  it  after  her  : 

"  '  Triumphing  over  death,  and  chance,  and  thee,  O  Time  !  ' 

"That  will  do  now,  Mary,  I  thank  you,"  he  said.  "I 
have  got  a  good  hold  of  it,  I  think,  and  shall  be  able  to  com- 
fort myself  with  it  when  I  wake  in  the  night.  The  man  must 
have  been  very  like  the  apostle  Paul. " 

He  said  no  more.  The  tea  was  brought,  and  he  drank  a 
cup  of  it,  but  could  not  eat ;  and,  as  he  could  not,  neither 
could  Mary. 

"I  want  a  long  sleep,"  he  said  ;  and  the  words  went  to  his 
child's  heart — she  dared  not  question  herself  why.  When  the 
tea-things  were  removed,  he  called  her. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  " come  here.     I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

She  kneeled  beside  him. 

"  Mary,"  he  said  again,  taking  her  little  hand  in  his  two 
long,  bony  ones,  "I  love  you,  my  child,  to  that  degree  I  can 
not  say  ;  and  I  want  you,  I  do  want  you,  to  be  a  Christian." 

"So  do  I,  father  dear,"  answered  Mary  simply,  the  tears 
rushing  into  her  eyes  at  the  thought  that  perhaps  she  was  not 
one  ;  "I  want  me  to  be  a  Christian." 

"Yes,  my  love,"  he  went  on  ;  "but  it  is  not  that  I  do  not 
think  you  a  Christian  ;  it  is  that  I  want  you  to  be  a  downright 
real  Christian,  not  one  that  is  but  trying  to  feel  as  a  Christian 
ought  to  feel.  I  have  lost  so  much  precious  time  in  that 
way  ! " 

"Tell  me — tell  me,"  cried  Mary,  clasping  her  other  hand 
over  his.     "  "What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  " 

"I  will  tell  you.     I  am  just  trying  how,"  he  responded. 
"A  Christian  is  just  one  that  does  what  the  Lord  Jesus  tells 
him.     Neither  more  nor  less  than  that  makes  a  Christian.     It 
5 


98  MARY  MAR8T0N. 

is  not  even  understanding  the  Lord  Jesus  that  makes  one  a 
Christian.  That  makes  one  dear  to  the  Father  ;  but  it  is  be- 
ing a  Christian,  that  is,  doing  Avhat  he  tells  us,  that  makes  us 
understand  him.  Peter  says  the  Holy  Spirit  is  given  to  them 
that  obey  him  :  what  else  is  that  but  just  actually,  really,  do- 
ing what  he  says — just  as  if  I  was  to  tell  you  to  go  and  fetch 
me  my  Bible,  and  you  would  get  up  and  go  ?  Did  you  ever 
do  anything,  my  child,  just  because  Jesus  told  you  to  do 
it?" 

Mary  did  not  answer  immediately.  She  thought  awhile. 
Then  she  spoke. 

"Yes,  father/'  she  said,  "I  think  so.  Two  nights  ago, 
George  was  very  rude  to  me — I  don't  mean  anything  bad,  but 
you  know  he  is  very  rough." 

"I  know  it,  my  child.  And  you  must  not  think  I  don't 
care  because  I  think  it  better  not  to  interfere.  I  am  with  you 
all  the  time. " 

"  Thank  you,  father ;  I  know  it.  Well,  when  I  was  going 
to  bed,  I  was  angry  with  him  still,  so  it  was  no  wonder  I 
found  I  could  not  say  my  prayers.  Then  I  remembered  how 
Jesus  said  we  must  forgive  or  we  should  not  be  forgiven.  So 
I  forgave  him.  with  all  my  heart,  and  kindly,  too,  and  then  I 
found  I  could  pray. " 

The  father  stretched  out  his  arms  and  drew  her  to  his 
bosom,  murmuring,  "  My  child  !  my  Christ's  child  ! "  After 
a  little  he  began  to  talk  again. 

"It  is  a  miserable  thing  to  hear  those  who  desire  to  believe 
themselves  Christians,  talking  and  talking  about  this  question 
and  that,  the  discussion  of  which  is  all  for.  strife  and  nowise 
for  unity — not  a  thought  among  them  of  the  one  command  of 
Christ,  to  love  one  another.  I  fear  some  are  hardly  content 
with  not  hating  those  who  differ  from  them." 

"I  am  sure,  father,  I  try — and  I  think  1  do  love  everybody 
that  loves  him,"  said  Mary. 

"  Well,  that  is  much — not  enough  though,  my  child.  We 
must  be  like  Jesus,  and  you  know  that  it  was  while  we  were 
yet  sinners  that  Christ  died  for  us ;  therefore  we  must  love  all 
men,  whether  they  are  Christians  or  not." 


WILLIAM  MARSTON.  99 

"Tell  me,  then,  what  you  want  me  to  do/ father  dear.  I 
will  do  whatever  you  tell  me." 

"I  want  you  to  he  just  like  that  to  the  Lord  Christ,  Mary. 
I  want  you  to  look  out  for  his  will,  and  find  it,  and  do  it.  I 
want  you  not  only  to  do  it,  though  that  is  the  main  thing, 
when  you  think  of  it,  but  to  look  for  it,  that  you  may  do  it. 
I  need  not  say  to  you  that  this  is  not  a  thing  to  be  talked 
about  much,  for  you  don't  do  that.  You  may  think  me  very 
silent,  my  love  ;  but  I  do  not  talk  always  when  I  am  inclined, 
for  the  fear  I  might  let  my  feeling  out  that  way,  instead  of 
doing  something  he  wants  of  me  with  it.  And  how  repulsive 
and  full  of  offense  those  generally  are  who  talk  most !  Our 
strength  ought  to  go  into  conduct,  not  into  talk — least  of  all, 
into  talk  about  what  they  call  the  doctrines  of  the  gospel.  The 
man  who  does  what  God  tells  him,  sits  at  his  Father's  feet,  and 
looks  up  in  his  Father's  face ;  and  men  had  better  leave  him 
alone,  for  he  can  not  greatly  mistake  his  Father,  and  certainly 
will  not  displease  him.  Look  for  the  lovely  will,  my  child, 
that  you  may  be  its  servant,  its  priest,  its  sister,  its  queen,  its 
slave — as  Paul  calls  himself.  How  that  man  did  glory  in  his 
Master  ! " 

"I  will  try,  father,"  returned  Mary,  with  a  burst  of  tears. 
"  I  do  want  to  be  good.  I  do  want  to  be  one  of  his  slaves,  if  I 
may." 

"  May  !  my  child  ?  You  are  bound  to  be.  You  have  no 
choice  but  choose  it.  It  is  what  we  are  made  for — freedom, 
the  divine  nature,  God's  life,  a  grand,  pure,  open-eyed  exist- 
ence !  It  is  what  Christ  died  for,  You  must  not  talk  about 
may;  it  is  all  must." 

Mary  had  never  heard  her  father  talk  like  this,  and,  not- 
withstanding the  endless  interest  of  his  words,  it  frightened 
her,  An  instinctive  uneasiness  crept  up  and  laid  hold  of  her. 
The  unsealing  hand  of  Death  was  opening  the  mouth  of  a  dumb 
prophet. 

A  pause  followed,  and  he  spoke  again. 

il  I  will  tell  you  one  thing  now  that  Jesus  says  :  he  is  un- 
changeable ;  what  he  says  once  he  says  always  ;  and  I  mention 
it  now,  because  it  may  not  be  long  before  you  are  specially 


100  MARY  MARSTOK 

called  to  mind  it.  It  is  this  :  '  Let  not  your  heart  be  trou- 
bled.' " 

"  But  he  said  that  on  one  particular  occasion,  and  to  his 
disciples — did  he  not  ?  "  said  Mary,  willing,  in  her  dread,  to 
give  the  conversation  a  turn. 

"Ah,  Mary  !"  said  her  father,  with  a  smile,  "will  you  let 
the  questioning  spirit  deafen  you  to  the  teaching  one  ?  Ask 
yourself,  the  first  time  you  are  alone,  what  the  disciples  were 
not  to  be  troubled  about,  and  why  they  were  not  to  be  trou- 
bled about  it. — I  am  tired,  and  should  like  to  go  to  bed." 

He  rose,  and  stood  for  a  moment  in  front  of  the  fire,  wind- 
ing his  old  double-cased  silver  watch.  Mary  took  from  her 
side  the  little  gold  one  he  had  given  her,  and,  as  was  her  cus- 
tom, handed  it  to  him  to  wind  for  her.  The  next  moment  he 
had  dropped  it  on  the  fender. 

"Ah,  my  child  !"  he  cried,  and,  stooping,  gathered  up  a 
dying  thing,  whose  watchfulness  was  all  over.  The  glass  was 
broken  ;  the  case  was  open  ;  it  lay  in  his  hand  a  mangled  crea- 
ture. Mary  heard  the  rush  of  its  departing  life,  as  the  wheels 
went  whirring,  and  the  hands  circled  rapidly. 

They  stopped  motionless.  She  looked  up  in  her  father's 
face  with  a  smile.     He  was  looking  concerned. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Mary,"  he  said  ;  "  but,  if  it  is  past  re- 
pair, I  will  get  you  another. — You  don't  seem  to  mind  it 
much  !  "  he  added,  and  smiled  himself. 

"Why  should  I,  father  dear  ?"  she  replied.  "When  one's 
father  breaks  one's  watch,  what  is  there  to  say  but  '  I  am  very 
glad  it  was  you  did  it '  ?  I  shall  like  the  little  thing  the  better 
for  it." 

He  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 

"My  child,  say  that  to  your  Father  in  heaven,  when  he 
breaks  something  for  you.  He  will  do  it  from  love,  not  from 
blundering.  I  don't  often  preach  to  you,  my  child — do  I  ?  but 
somehow  it  comes  to  me  to-night." 

"I  will  remember,  father,"  said  Mary;  and  she  did  re- 
member. 

She  went  with  him  to  his  bedroom,  and  saw  that  every- 
thing was  right  for  him.     When  she  went  again,  before  going 


WILLIAM  MARSTOK  101 

to  her  own,  he  felt  more  comfortable,  he  said,  and  expected  to 
have  a  good  night.  Believed,  she  left  him ;  but  her  heart 
would  be  heavy.  A  shapeless  sadness  seemed  pressing  it  down  ; 
it  was  being  got  ready  for  what  it  had  to  bear. 

When  she  went  to  his  room  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  she 
found  him  slumbering  peacefully,  and  went  back  to  her  own 
and  slept  better.  "When  she  went  again  in  the  morning,  he  lay 
white,  motionless,  and  without  a  breath. 

It  was  not  in  Mary's  nature  to  give  sudden  vent  to  her  feel- 
ings. For  a  time  she  was  stunned.  As  if  her  life  had  rushed 
to  overtake  her  departing  parent,  and  beg  a  last  embrace,  she 
stood  gazing  motionless.  The  sorrow  was  too  huge  for  en- 
trance. The  thing  could  not  be  !  Not  until  she  stooped  and 
kissed  the  pale  face,  did  the  stone  in  her  bosom  break,  and 
yield  a  torrent  of  grief.  But,  although  she  had  left  her  father 
in  that  very  spot  the  night  before,  already  she  not  only  knew 
but  felt  that  was  not  he  which  lay  where  she  had  left  him.  He 
was  gone,  and  she  was  alone.  She  tried  to  pray,  but  her  heart 
seemed  to  lie  dead  in  her  bosom,  and  no  prayer  would  rise 
from  it.  It  was  the  time  of  all  times  when,  if  ever,  prayer 
must  be  the  one  reasonable  thing — and  pray  she  could  not. 
In  her  dull  stupor  she  did  not  hear  Beenie's  knock.  The  old 
woman  entered,  and  found  her  on  her  knees,  with  her  forehead 
on  one  of  the  dead  hands,  while  the  white  face  of  her  master 
lay  looking  up  to  heaven,  as  if  praying  for  the  living  not  yet 
privileged  to  die.  Then  first  was  the  peace  of  death  broken. 
Beenie  gave  a  loud  cry,  and  turned  and  ran,  as  if  to  warn  the 
neighbors  that  Death  was  loose  in  the  town.  Thereupon,  as  if 
Death  were  a  wild  beast  yet  lurking  in  it,  the  house  was  filled 
with  noise  and  tumult ;  the  sanctuary  of  the  dead  was  invaded 
by  unhallowed  presence  ;  and  the  poor  girl,  hearing  behind  her 
voices  she  did  not  love,  raised  herself  from  her  knees,  and,  with- 
out lifting  her  eyes,  crept  from  the  room  and  away  to  her  own. 

"Follow  her,  George,"  said  his  father,  in  a  loud,  eager 
whisper.  "  You've  got  to  comfort  her  now.  That's  your  busi- 
ness, George.     There's  your  chance  ! " 

The  last  words  he  called  from  the  bottom  of  the  stair,  as 
George  sped  up  after  her. 


102  MARY  MARSTOK 

"Mary  !  Mary,  dear,"  he  called  as  he  ran. 

But  Mary  had  the  instinct — it  was  hardly  more — to  quicken 
her  pace,  and  lock  the  door  of  her  room  the  moment  she  entered. 
As  she  turned  from  it,  her  eye  fell  upon  her  watch — where  it 
lay,  silent  and  disfigured,  on  her  dressing-table ;  and,  with 
the  sight,  the  last  words  of  her  father  came  hack  to  her.  She 
fell  again  on  her  knees  with  a  fresh  burst  of  weeping,  and,  while 
the  foolish  youth  was  knocking  unheard  at  her  door,  cried, 
with  a  strange  mixture  of  agony  and  comfort,  "  0  my  Father 
in  heaven,  give  me  back  William  Marston  ! "  Never  in  his  life 
had  she  thought  of  her  father  by  his  name  ;  but  death,  while 
it  made  him  dearer  than  ever,  set  him  away  from  her  so,  that 
she  began  to  see  him  in  his  larger  individuality,  as  a  man  be- 
fore the  God  of  men,  a  son  before  the  Father  of  many  sons  : 
Death  turns  a  man's  sons  and  daughters  into  his  brothers  and 
sisters.  And  while  she  kneeled,  and,  with  exhausted  heart, 
let  her  brain  go  on  working  of  itself,  as  it  seemed,  came  a 
dreamy  vision  of  the  Saviour  with  his  disciples  about  him, 
reasoning  with  them  that  they  should  not  give  way  to  grief. 
"Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled,"  he  seemed  to  be  saying, 
"although  I  die,  and  go  out  of  your  sight.  It  is  all  well. 
Take  my  word  for  it." 

She  rose,  wiped  her  eyes,  looked  up,  said,  "I  will  try, 
Lord,"  and,  going  down,  called  Beenie,  and  sent  her  to  ask  Mr. 
Turnbull  to  speak  with  her.  She  knew  her  father's  ideas,  and 
must  do  her  endeavor  to  have  the  funeral  as  simple  as  possible. 
It  was  a  relief  to  have  something,  anything,  to  do  in  his  name. 

Mr.  Turnbull  came,  and  the  coarse  man  was  kind.  It  went 
not  a  little  against  the  grain  with  him  to  order  what  he  called 
a  pauper's  funeral  for  the  junior  partner  in  the  firm  ;  but,  more 
desirous  than  ever  to  conciliate  Mary,  he  promised  all  that  she 
wished. 

"Marston  was  but  a  poor-spirited  fellow,"  he  said  to  his 
wife  when  he  told  her  ;  "the  thing  is  a  disgrace  to  the  shop, 
but  it's  fit  enough  for  him. — It  will  be  so  much  money  saved," 
he  added  in  self-consolation,  while  his  wife  turned  up  her  nose, 
as  she  always  did  at  any  mention  of  the  shop. 

Mary  returned  to  her  father's  room,  now  silent  again  with 


WILLIAM  HARSTOK  103 

the  air  of  that  which  is  not.  She  took  from  the  table  the  old 
silver  watch.  It  went  on  measuring  the  time  by  a  scale  now 
useless  to  its  owner.  She  placed  it  lovingly  in  her  bosom,  and 
sat  down  by  the  bedside.  Already,  through  love,  sorrow,  and 
obedience,  she  began  to  find  herself  drawing  nearer  to  him  than 
she  had  ever  been  before  ;  already  she  was  able  to  recall  his  last 
words,  and  strengthen  her  resolve  to  keep  them.  And,  sitting 
thus,  holding  vague  companionship  with  the  merely  mortal, 
the  presence  of  that  which  was  not  her  father,  which  was  like 
him  only  to  remind  her  that  it  was  not  he,  and  which  must  so 
soon  cease  to  resemble  him,  there  sprang,  as  in  the  very  foot- 
print of  Death,  yet  another  flower  of  rarest  comfort — a  strong 
feeling,  namely,  of  the  briefness  of  time,  and  the  certainty  of 
the  messenger's  return  to  fetch  herself.  Her  soul  did  not  sink 
into  peace,  but  a  strange  peace  awoke  in  her  spirit.  She  heard 
the  spring  of  the  great  clock  that  measures  the  years  rushing 
rapidly  down  with  a  feverous  whir,  and  saw  the  hands  that 
measure  the  weeks  and  months  careering  around  its  face ; 
while  Death,  like  one  of  the  white-robed  angels  in  the  tomb  of 
the  Lord,  sat  watching,  with  patient  smile,  for  the  hour  when 
he  should  be  wanted  to  go  for  her.  Thus  mingled  her  broken 
watch,  her  father's  death,  and  Jean  Paul's  dream ;  and  the 
fancy  might  well  comfort  her. 

I  will  not  linger  much  more  over  the  crumbling  time.  It 
is  good  for  those  who  are  in  it,  specially  good  for  those  who 
come  out  of  it  chastened  and  resolved ;  but  I  doubt  if  any  pro- 
longed contemplation  of  death  is  desirable  for  those  whose 
business  it  now  is  to  live,  and  whose  fate  it  is  ere  long  to  die. 
It  is  a  closing  of  God's  hand  upon  us  to  squeeze  some  of  the 
bad  blood  out  of  us,  and,  when  it  relaxes,  we  must  live  the  more 
diligently — not  to  get  ready  for  death,  but  to  get  more  life.  I 
will  relate  only  one  thing  yet,  belonging  to  this  twilight  time. 


104  MART  HARSTOK 

CHAPTER    XII. 

mart's    dream. 

That  night,  and  every  night  until  the  dust  was  laid  to  the 
dust,  Mary  slept  well ;  and  through  the  days  she  had  great 
composure ;  hut,  when  the  funeral  was  over,  came  a  collapse 
and  a  change.  The  moment  it  became  necessary  to  look  on 
the  world  as  unchanged,  and  resume  former  relations  with  it, 
then,  first,  a  fuller  sense  of  her  lonely  desolation  declared  itself. 
When  she  said  good  night  to  Beenie,  and  went  to  her  chamber, 
over  that  where  the  loved  parent  and  friend  would  fall  asleep 
no  more,  she  felt  as  if  she  went  walking  along  to  her  tomb . 

That  night  was  the  first  herald  of  the  coming  winter,  and 
blew  a  cold  blast  from  his  horn.  All  day  the  wind  had  been 
out.  Wildly  in  the  churchyard  it  had  pulled  at  the  long  grass, 
as  if  it  would  tear  it  from  its  roots  in  the  graves  ;  it  had  struck 
vague  sounds,  as  from  a  hollow  world,  out  of  the  great  bell 
overhead  in  the  huge  tower ;  and  it  had  beat  loud  and  fierce 
against  the  corner-buttresses  which  went  stretching  up  out  of 
the  earth,  like  arms  to  hold  steady  and  fast  the  lighthouse  of 
the  dead  above  the  sea  which  held  them  drowned  below ;  de- 
spairingly had  the  gray  clouds  drifted  over  the  sky ;  and,  like 
white  clouds  pinioned  below,  and  shadows  that  could  not 
escape,  the  surplice  of  the  ministering  priest  and  the  garments 
of  the  mourners  had  flapped  and  fluttered  as  in  captive  terror  ; 
the  only  still  things  were  the  coffin,  and  the  church — and  the 
soul  which  had  risen  above  the  region  of  storms  in  the  might 
of  Him  who  abolished  death.  At  the  time  Mary  had  noted 
nothing  of  these  things  ;  now  she  saw  them  all,  as  for  the  first 
time,  in  minute  detail,  while  slowly  she  went  up  the  stair  and 
through  the  narrowed  ways,  and  heard  the  same  wind  that 
raved  alike  about  the  new  grave  and  the  old  house,  into  which 
latter,  for  all  the  bales  banked  against  the  walls,  it  found  many 
a  chink  of  entrance.  The  smell  of  the  linen,  of  the  blue  cloth, 
and  of  the  brown  paper — things  no  longer  to  be  handled  by 
those  tender,  faithful  hands— was  dismal  and   strange,  and 


MARY'S  DREAM.  105 

haunted  her  like  things  that  intruded,  things  which  she  had 
done  with,  and  which  yet  would  not  go  away.  Everything  had 
gone  dead,  as  it  seemed,  had  exhaled  the  soul  of  it,  and  re- 
tained hut  the  odor  of  its  mortality.  If  for  a  moment  a  thing 
looked  the  same  as  before,  she  wondered  vaguely,  unconscious- 
ly, how  it  could  be.  The  passages  through  the  merchandise, 
left  only  wide  enough  for  one,  seemed  like  those  she  had  read 
of  in  Egyptian  tombs  and  pyramids  :  a  sarcophagus  ought  to  be 
waiting  in  her  chamber.  When  she  opened  the  door  of  it,  the 
bright  fire,  which  Beenie  undesired  had  kindled  there,  startled 
her :  the  room  looked  unnatural,  uncanny,  because  it  was 
cheerful.  She  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  hearth,  and  in  sad, 
dreamy  mood  listened  to  the  howling  swoops  of  the  wind,  mak- 
ing the  house  quiver  and  shake.  Now  and  then  would  come  a 
greater  gust,  and  rattle  the  window  as  if  in  fierce  anger  at  its 
exclusion,  then  go  shrieking  and  wailing  through  the  dark 
heaven.  Mechanically  she  took  her  New  Testament,  and,  seat- 
ing herself  in  a  low  chair  by  the  fire,  tried  to  read ;  but  she 
could  not  fix  her  thoughts,  or  get  the  meaning  of  a  sentence  : 
when  she  had  read  it,  there  it  lay,  looking  at  her  just  the  same, 
like  an  unanswered  riddle. 

The  region  of  the  senses  is  the  unbelieving  part  of  the  hu- 
man soul ;  and  out  of  that  now  began  to  rise  fumes  of  doubt 
and  question  into  Mary's  heart  and  brain.  Death  was  a  fact. 
The  loss,  the  evanishment,  the  ceasing,  were  incontrovertible 
— the  only  incontrovertible  things  :  she  was  sure  of  them:  could 
she  be  sure  of  anything  else  ?  How  could  she  ?  She  had  not 
seen  Christ  rise  ;  she  had  never  looked  upon  one  of  the  dead  ; 
never  heard  a  voice  from  the  other  bank  ;  had  received  no  cer- 
tain testimony.  These  were  not  her  thoughts  ;  she  was  too 
weary  to  think  ;  they  were  but  the  thoughts  that  steamed  up 
in  her,  and  went  floating  about  before  her  ;  she  looked  on  them 
calmly,  coldly,  as  they  came,  and  passed,  or  remained — saw 
them  with  indifference — there  they  were,  and  she  could  not 
help  it — weariedly,  believing  none  of  them,  unable  to  cope  with 
and  dispel  them,  hardly  affected  by  their  presence,  save  with  a 
sense  of  dreariness  and  loneliness  and  wretched  company.  At 
last  she  fell  asleep,  and  in  a  moment  was  dreaming  diligently. 


106  MARY  MAR8T0K 

This  was  her  dream,  as  nearly  as  she  could  recall  it,  when  she 
came  to  herself  after  waking  from  it  with  a  cry. 

She  was  one  of  a  large  company  at  a  house  where  she  had 
never  been  before — a  beautiful  house  with  a  large  garden  behind. 
It  was  a  summer  night,  and  the  guests  were  wandering  in  and 
out  at  will,  and  through  house  and  garden,  amid  lovely  things 
of  all  colors  and  odors.  The  moon  was  shining,  and  the  roses 
were  in  pale  bloom.  But  she  knew  nobody,  and  wandered 
alone  in  the  garden,  oppressed  with  something  she  did  not  un- 
derstand. Every  now  and  then  she  came  on  a  little  group,  or 
met  a  party  of  the  guests,  as  she  walked,  but  none  spoke  to 
her,  or  seemed  to  see  her,  and  she  spoke  to  none. 

She  found  herself  at  length  in  an  avenue  of  dark  trees,  the 
end  of  which  was  far  off.  Thither  she  went  walking,  the  only 
living  thing,  crossing  strange  shadows  from  the  moon.  At  the 
end  of  it  she  was  in  a  place  of  tombs.  Terror  and  a  dismay 
indescribable  seized  her ;  she  turned  and  fled  back  to  the  com- 
pany of  her  kind.  But  for  a  long  time  she  sought  the  house  in 
Vain  ;  she  could  not  reach  it ;  the  avenue  seemed  interminable 
to  her  feet  returning.  At  last  she  was  again  upon  the  lawn, 
but  neither  man  nor  woman  was  there  ;  and  in  the  house  only  a 
light  here  and  there  was  burning.  Every  guest  was  gone.  She 
entered,  and  the  servants,  soft-footed  and  silent,  were  busy  car- 
rying away  the  vessels  of  hospitality,  and  restoring  order,  as  if 
already  they  prepared  for  .mother  company  on  the  morrow. 
No  one  heeded  her.  She  was  out  of  place,  and  much  unwel- 
come. She  hastened  to  the  door  of  entrance,  for  every  moment 
there  was  a  misery.  She  reached  the  hall.  A  strange,  shadowy 
porter  opened  to  her,  and  she  stepped  out  into  a  wide  street. 

That,  too,  was  silent.  No  carriage  rolled  along  the  center, 
no  footfarer  walked  on  the  side.  Not  a  light  shone  from 
window  or  door,  save  what  they  gave  back  of  the  yellow  light 
of  the  moon.  She  was  lost — lost  utterly,  with  an  eternal  loss. 
She  knew  nothing  of  the  place,  had  nowhere  to  go,  nowhere 
she  wanted  to  go,  had  not  a  thought  to  tell  her  what  question 
to  ask,  if  she  met  a  living  soul.  But  living  soul  there  could  be 
none  to  meet.  She  had  nor  home,  nor  direction,  nor  desire ; 
she  knew  of  nothing  that  she  had  lost,  nor  of  anything  she 


MARY'S  DREAM.  107 

wished  to  gain ;  she  had  nothing  left  but  the  sense  that  she 
was  empty,  that  she  needed  some  goal,  and  had  none.  She  sat 
down  upon  a  stone  between  the  wide  street  and  the  wide  pave- 
ment, and  saw  the  moon  shining  gray  upon  the  stone  houses. 
It  was  all  deadness. 

Presently,  from  somewhere  in  the  moonlight,  appeared, 
walking  up  to  her,  where  she  sat  in  eternal  listlessness,  the  one 
only  brother  she  had  ever  had.  She  had  lost  him  years  and 
years  before,  and  now  she  saw  him ;  he  was  there,  and  she 
knew  him.  But  not  a  throb  went  through  her  heart.  He 
came  to  her  side,  and  she  gave  him  no  greeting.  "Why  should 
I  heed  him  ? "  she  said  to  herself.  "He  is  dead.  I  am  only 
in  a  dream.  This  is  not  he  ;  it  is  but  his  pitiful  phantom  that 
comes  wandering  hither — a  ghost  without  a  heart,  made  out  of 
the  moonlight.  It  is  nothing.  I  am  nothjng.  I  am  lost. 
Everything  is  an  empty  dream  of  loss.  I  know  it,  and  there 
is  no  waking.  If  there  were,  surely  the  sight  of  him  would 
give  me  some  shimmer  of  delight.  The  old  time  was  but  a 
thicker  dream,  and  this  is  truer  because  more  shadowy." 
And,  the  form  still  standing  by  her,  she  felt  it  was  ages 
away  ;  she  was  divided  from  it  by  a  gulf  of  very  nothingness. 
Her  only  life  was,  that  she  was  lost.  Her  whole  consciousness 
was  merest,  all  but  abstract,  loss. 

Then  came  the  form  of  her  mother,  and  bent  over  that 
of  her  brother  from  behind.  "  Another  ghost  of  a  ghost ! 
another  shadow  of  a  phantom  ! "  she  said  to  herself.  "  She  is 
nothing  to  me.  If  I  speak  to  her,  she  is  not  there.  Shall  I 
pour  out  my  soul  into  the  ear  of  a  mist,  a  fume  from  my  own 
brain  ?  Oh,  cold  creatures,  ye  are  not  what  ye  seem,  and  I 
will  none  of  you  ! " 

With  that,  came  her  father,  and  stood  beside  the  others, 
gazing  upon  her  with  still,  cold  eyes,  expressing  only  a  pale 
quiet.  She  bowed  her  face  on  her  hands,  and  would  not  re- 
gard him.  Even  if  he  were  alive,  her  heart  was  past  being 
moved.  It  was  settled  into  stone.  The  universe  was  sunk  in 
one  of  the  dreams  that  haunt  the  sleep  of  death  ;  and,  if  these 
were  ghosts  at  all,  they  were  ghosts  walking  in  their  sleep. 

But  the  dead,  one  of  them  seized  one  of  her  hands,  and 


108  MART  MARSTON. 

another  the  other.  They  raised  her  to  her  feet,  and  led  her 
along,  and  her  brother  walked  before.  Thus  was  she  borne 
away  captive  of  her  dead,  neither  willing  nor  unwilling,  of 
life  and  death  equally  careless.  Through  the  moonlight  they 
led  her  from  the  city,  and  over  fields,  and  through  valleys,  and. 
across  rivers  and  seas — a  long  journey ;  nor  did  she  grow 
weary,  for  there  was  not  life  enough  in  her  to  be  made  weary. 
The  dead  never  spoke  to  her,  and  she  never  spoke  to  them. 
Sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  they  spoke  to  each  other,  but,  if  it 
were  so,  it  concerned  some  shadowy  matter,  no  more  to  her 
than  the  talk  of  grasshoppers  in  the  field,  or  of  beetles  that 
weave  their  much- involved  dances  on  the  face  of  the  pool. 
Their  voices  were  even  too  thin  and  remote  to  rouse  her  to 
listen. 

They  came  at  length  to  a  great  mountain,  and,  as  they  were 
going  up  the  mountain,  light  began  to  grow,  as  if  the  sun 
were  beginning  to  rise.  But  she  cared  as  little  for  the  sun 
that  was  to  light  the  day  as  for  the  moon  that  had  lighted  the 
night,  and  closed  her  eyes,  that  she  might  cover  her  soul  with 
her  eyelids. 

Of  a  sudden  a  great  splendor  burst  upon  her,  and  through 
her  eyelids  she  was  struck  blind — blind  with  light  and  not  with 
darkness,  for  all  was  radiance  about  her.  She  was  like  a  fish 
in  a  sea  of  light.  But  she  neither  loved  the  light  nor  mourned 
the  shadow. 

Then  were  her  ears  invaded  with  a  confused  murmur,  as  of 
the  mingling  of  all  sweet  sounds  of  the  earth — of  wind  and 
water,  of  bird  and  voice,  of  string  and  metal — all  afar  and 
indistinct.  Next  arose  about  her  a  whispering,  as  of  winged 
insects,  talking  with  human  voices ;  but  she  listened  to  no- 
thing, and  heard  nothing  of  what  was  said  :  it  was  all  a  tiresome 
dream,  out  of  which  whether  she  waked  or  died  it  mattered 
not. 

Suddenly  she  was  taken  between  two  hands,  and  lifted,  and 
seated  upon  knees  like  a  child,  and  she  felt  that  some  one  was 
looking  at  her.  'Then  came  a  voice,  one  that  she  never  heard 
before,  yet  with  which  she  was  as  familiar  as  with  the  sound  of 
the  blowing  wind.     And  the  voice  said,  "Poor  child!  some- 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE.  109 

thing  lias  closed  the  valve  between  her  heart  and  mine."  With 
that  came  a  pang  of  intense  pain.  Bnt  it  was  her  own  cry  of 
speechless  delight  that  woke  her  from  her  dream. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE    HUMAN"    SACEIFICE. 

The  same  wind  that  rushed  about  the  funeral  of  William 
Marston  in  the  old  churchyard  of  Testbridge,  howled  in  the  roof- 
less hall  and  ruined  tower  of  Durnmelling,  and  dashed  against 
the  plate-glass  windows  of  the  dining-room,  where  the  three 
ladies  sat  at  lunch.  Immediately  it  was  over,  Lady  Malice 
rose,  saying : 

"Hesper,  I  want  a  word  with  you.     Come  to  my  room." 

Hesper  obeyed,  with  calmness,  but  without  a  doubt  that 
evil  awaited  her  there.  To  that  room  she  had  never  been  sum- 
moned for  anything  she  could  call  good.  And  indeed  she  knew 
well  enough  what  evil  it  was  that  to-day  played  the  Minotaur. 
When  they  reached  the  boudoir,  rightly  so  called,  for  it  was 
more  in  use  for  sulking  than  for  anything  else,  Lady  Margaret, 
with  back  as  straight  as  the  door  she  had  just  closed,  led  the 
way  to  the  fire,  and,  seating  herself,  motioned  Hesper  to  a  chair. 
Hesper  again  obeyed,  looking  as  unconcerned  as  if  she  cared 
for  nothing  in  this  world  or  in  any  other.  Would  we  were  all  as 
strong  to  suppress  hate  and  fear  and  anxiety  as  some  ladies  are 
to  suppress  all  show  of  them  !  Such  a  woman  looks  to  me  like 
an  automaton,  in  which  a  human  soul,  somewhere  concealed, 
tries  to  play  a  good  game  of  life,  and  makes  a  sad  mess  of  it. 

"  Well,  Hesper,  what  do  you  think  ?  "  said  her  mother,  with 
a  dull  attempt  at  gayety,  which  could  nowise  impose  upon  the 
experience  of  her  daughter. 

"I  think  nothing,  mamma,"  drawled  Hesper. 

".  Mr.  Eedmain  has  come  to  the  point  at  last,  my  dear  child." 

"  What  point,  mamma  ?  " 


110  MARY  MARSTON. 

"He  had  a  private  interview  with  your  father  this  morn- 
ing. " 

"Indeed!" 

"  Foolish  girl !  you  think  to  tease  me  by  pretending  indif- 
ference ! " 

"  How  can  a  fact  be  pretended,  mamma  ?  Why  should  I  care 
what  passes  in  the  study  ?  I  was  never  welcome  there.  But, 
if  you  wish,  I  will  pretend.  What  important  matter  was  set- 
tled in  the  study  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Hesper,  you  provoke  me  with  your  affectation  !  " 

Hesper's  eyes  began  to  flash.  Otherwise  she  was  still — 
silent — not  a  feature  moved.  The  eyes  are  more  untamable 
than  the  tongue.  When  the  wild  beast  can  not  get  out  at  the 
door,  nothing  can  keep  him  from  the  windows.  The  eyes  flash 
when  the  will  is  yet  lord  even  of  ihe  lines  of  the  mouth.  Not 
a  nerve  of  Hesper's  quivered.  Though  a  mere  child  in  the 
knowledge  that  concerned  her  own  being,  even  the  knowledge 
of  what  is  commonly  called  the  heart,  she  was  yet  a  mistress  of 
the  art  of  self-defense,  socially  applied,  and  she  would  not  now 
put  herself  at  the  disadvantage  of  taking  anything  for  granted, 
or  accept  the  clearest  hint  for  a  plain  statement.  She  not 
merely  continued  silent,  but  looked  so  utterly  void  of  interest, 
or  desire  to  speak,  that  her  mother,  recognizing  her  own  child, 
and  quailing  before  the  evil  spirit  she  had  herself  sent  on  to 
the  generations  to  come,  yielded  and  spoke  out. 

"  Mr.  Eedmain  has  proposed  for  your  hand,  Hesper,"  she 
said,  in  a  tone  as  indifferent  in  her  turn  as  if  she  were  men- 
tioning the  appointment  of  a  new  clergyman  to  the  family 
living. 

For  one  moment,  and  one  only,  the  repose  of  Hesper's 
faultless  upper  lip  gave  way  ;  one  writhing  movement  of  scorn 
passed  along  its  curves,  and  left  them  for  a  moment  straight- 
ened out — to  return  presently  to  a  grander  bend  than  before. 
In  a  tone  that  emulated,  and  more  than  equaled,  the  indiffer- 
ence of  her  mother's,  she  answered  : 

"And  papa?" 

"  Has  referred  him  to  you,  of  course,"  replied  Lady 
Margaret. 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE.  HI 

"  Meaning  it  ?  " 

"  What  else  ?    Why  not  ?    Is  he  not  a  ton  parti?" 

"Then  papa  did  not  mean  it  ?" 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  elaborated  the  mother,  with  a 
mingled  yawn,  which  she  was  far  from  attempting  to  suppress, 
seeing  she  simulated  it. 

"If  Mr.  Redmain  is  such  a  good  match  in  papa's  eyes," 
explained  Hesper,  "why  does  papa  refer  him  to  me  ?" 

"That  you  may  accept  him,  of  course." 

"  How  much  has  the  man  promised  to  pay  for  me  ?  " 

"Hesper ! " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  mamma.  I  thought  you  approved  of 
calling  things  by  their  right  names  !  " 

"  No  girl  can  do  better  than  follow  her  mother's  example," 
said  Lady  Margaret,  with  vague  sequence.  "  If  you  do,  Hes- 
per, you  will  accept  Mr.  Eedmain." 

Hesper  fixed  her  eyes  on  her  mother,  but  hers  were  too 
cold  and  clear  to  quail  before  them,  let  them  flash  and  burn  as 
they  pleased. 

"  As  you  did  papa  ?  "  said  Hesper. 

"As  I  did  Mr.  Mortimer." 

"That  explains  a  good  deal,  mamma." 

"We  are  your  parents,  anyhow,  Hesper." 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  don't  know  which  to  be  sorrier  for — 
you  or  me.  Tell  me,  mamma  :  would  you  marry  Mr.  Red- 
main  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  foolish  question,  and  ought  not  to  be  put.  It 
is  one  which,  as  a  married  woman,  I  could  not  consider  with- 
out impropriety.  Knowing  the  duty  of  a  daughter,  I  did. not 
put  the  question  to  you.  You  are  yourself  the  offspring  of 
duty." 

"  If  you  were  in  my  place,  mamma,"  reattempted  Hesper, 
but  her  mother  did  not  allow  her  to  proceed. 

"In  any  place,  in  every  place,  I  should  do  my  duty,"  she  said. 

It  was  not  only  born  in  Lady  Malice's  blood,  but  from 
earliest  years  had  been  impressed  on  her  brain,  that  her  first 
duty  was  to  her  family,  and  mainly  consisted  in  getting  well 
out  of  its  way — in  going  peaceably  through  the  fire  to  Moloch, 


112  MART  MARSTON. 

that  the  rest  might  have  good  places  in  the  Temple  of  Mam- 
mon. In  her  turn,  she  had  trained  her  children  to  the  be- 
wildering conviction  that  it  was  duty  to  do  a  certain  wrong,  if 
it  should  be  required.  That  wrong  thing  was  now  required  of 
Hesper — a  thing  she  scorned,  hated,  shuddered  at ;  she  must 
follow  the  rest ;  her  turn  to  be  sacrificed  was  come  ;  she  must 
henceforth  be  a  living  lie.  She  could  recompense  herself  as 
the  daughters  who  have  sinned  by  yielding  generally  do  when 
they  are  mothers,  with  the  sin  of  compelling,  and  thus  make 
the  trespass  round  and  full.  There  is  in  no  language  yet  the 
word  invented  to  fit  the  vileness  of  such  mothers  ;  but,  as  time 
flows  and  speech  grows,  it  may  be  found,  and,  when  it  is  found, 
it  will  have  action  retrospective.  It  is  a  frightful  thing  when 
ignorance  of  evil,  so  much  to  be  desired  where  it  can  contrib- 
ute to  safety,  is  employed  to  smooth  the  way  to  the  nnholiest 
doom,  in  which  love  itself  must  ruthlessly  perish,  and  those, 
who  on  the  plea  of  virtue  were  kept  ignorant,  be  perfected  in 
the  image  of  the  mothers  who  gave  them  over  to  destruction. 
Some,  doubtless,  of  the  innocents  thus  immolated  pass  even 
through  hideous  fires  of  marital  foulness  to  come  out  the  purer 
and  the  sweeter  ;  but  whither  must  the  stone  about  the  neck 
of  those  that  cause  the  little  ones  to  offend  sink  those  moth- 
ers ?  What  company  shall  in  the  end  be  too  low,  too  foul 
for  them  ?    Like  to  like  it  must  always  be. 

Hesper  was  not  so  ignorant  as  some  girls  ;  she  had  for  some 
time  had  one  at  her  side  capable  of  casting  not  a  little  light  of 
the  kind  that  is  darkness. 

"Duty,  mamma!"  she  cried,  her  eyes  flaming,  and  her 
cheek  flushed  with  the  shame  of  the  thing  that  was  but  as  yet 
the  merest  object  in  her  thought ;  "can  a  woman  be  born  for 
such  things  ?  How  could  I — mamma,  how  could  any  woman, 
with  an  atom  of  self-respect,  consent  to  occupy  the  same — 
room  with  Mr.  Eedmain  ? " 

"  Hesper  !  I  am  shocked.  Where  did  you  learn  to  speak, 
not  to  say  think,  of  such  things  ?  Have  I  taken  such  pains — 
good  God !  you  strike  me  dumb  !  Have  I  watched  my  child 
like  a  very — angel,  as  anxious  to  keep  her  mind  pure  as  her 
body  fair,  and  is  this  the  result  ?  " 


TEE  EUMAN  SACRIFICE.  113 

Upon  what  Lady  Margaret  founded  her  claim  to  a  result 
more  satisfactory  to  her  maternal  designs,  it  were  hard  to  say. 
For  one  thing,  she  had  known  nothing  of  what  went  on  in  her 
nursery,  positively  nothing  of  the  real  character  of  the  women 
to  whom  she  gave  the  charge  of  it ;  and — although,  I  dare  say, 
for  worldly  women,  Hesper's  schoolmistresses  were  quite  re- 
spectable— what  did  her  mother,  what  could  she  know  of  the 
governesses  or  of  the  flock  of  sheep — all  presumably,  but  how 
certainly  all  white  ? — into  which  she  had  sent  her  ? 

"Is  this  the  result  ?"  said  Lady  Margaret. 

"Was  it  your  object,  then,  to  keep  me  innocent,  only  that 
I  might  have  the  necessary  lessons  in  wickedness  first  from  my 
husband?"  said  Hesper,  with  a  rudeness  for  which,  if  an 
apology  be  necessary,  I  leave  my  reader  to  find  it. 

"Hesper,  you  are  vulgar  !"  said  Lady  Margaret,  with  cold 
indignation,  and  an  expression  of  unfeigned  disgust.  She  was, 
indeed,  genuinely  shocked.  That  a  young  lady  of  Hesper's 
birth  and  position  should  talk  like  this,  actually  objecting  to 
a  man  as  her  husband  because  she  recoiled  from  his  wicked- 
ness, of  which  she  was  not  to  be  supposed  to  know,  or  to  be 
capable  of  understanding,  anything,  was  a  thing  unheard  of 
in  her  world — a  thing  unmaidenly  in  the  extreme  !  What 
innocent  girl  would  or  could  or  dared  allude  to  such  matters  ? 
She  had  no  right  to  know  an  atom  about  them  ! 

"You  are  a  married  woman,  mamma,"  returned  Hesper, 
"and  therefore  must  know  a  great  many  things  I  neither 
know  nor  wish  to  know.  For  anything  I  know,  you  may  be 
ever  so  much  a  better  woman  than  I,  for  having  learned  not 
to  mind  things  that  are  a  horror  to  me.  But  there  was  a  time 
when  you  shrunk  from  them  as  I  do  now.  I  appeal  to  you  as  a 
woman  :  for  God's  sake,  save  me  from  marrying  that  wretch  ! " 

She  spoke  in  a  tone  inconsistently  calm. 

"  Girl !  is  it  possible  you  dare  to  call  the  man,  whom  your 
father  and  I  have  chosen  for  your  husband,  a  wretch  ! " 

"  Is  he  not  a  wretch,  mamma  ?  " 

"If  he  were,  how  should  I  know  it  ?  What  has  any  lady 
got  to  do  with  a  man's  secrets  ?  " 

"  Not  if  he  wants  to  marry  her  daughter  ?  " 


114  MARY  MARSTOK 

"  Certainly  not.  If  he  should  not  be  altogether  what  he 
ought  to  be — and  which  of  us  is? — then  you  will  have  the 
honor  of  reclaiming  him.  But  men  settle  down  when  they 
marry." 

"  And  what  comes  of  their  wives  ?" 

"  What  comes  of  women.  You  have  your  mother  before 
you,  Hesper." 

"  0  mother  ! "  cried  Hesper,  now  at  length  losing  the  hor- 
rible affectation  of  calm  which  she  had  been  taught  to  regard 
as  de  rigueur,  "is  it  possible  that  you,  so  beautiful,  so  digni- 
fied, would  send  me  on  to  meet  things  you  dare  not  tell  me — 
knowing  they  would  turn  me  sick  or  mad  ?  How  dares  a  man 
like  that  even  desire  in  his  heart  to  touch  an  innocent  girl  ?  " 

"  Because  he  is  tired  of  the  other  sort,"  said  Lady  Malice, 
half  unconsciously,  to  herself.  What  she  said  to  her  daughter 
was  ten  times  worse  :  the  one  was  merely  a  fact  concerning 
Sedmain  ;  the  other  revealed  a  horrible  truth  concerning  her- 
self. "  He  will  settle  three  thousand  a  year  on  you,  Hesper," 
she  said  with  a  sigh  ;  "and  you  will  find  yourself  mistress." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  answered  Hesper,  in  bitter  scorn. 
'•'  Such  a  man  is  incapable  of  making  any  woman  a  wife." 

Hesper  meant  an  awful  spiritual  fact,  of  which,  with  all  her 
ignorance  of  human  nature,  she  had  yet  got  a  glimpse  in  her 
tortured  reflections  of  late  ;  but  her  mother's  familiarity  with 
evil  misinterpreted  her  innocence,  and  caused  herself  utter 
dismay.  What  right  had  a  girl  to  think  at  all  for  herself 
in  such  matters  ?  These  were  things  that  must  be  done,  not 
thought  of ! 

"These  things  must  not  he' thought 
After  these  ways ;  so,  they  will  drive  us  mad." 

Yes,  these  things  are  hard  to  think  about — harder  yet  to 
write  about !  "The  very  persons  who  would  send  the  white  soul 
into  arms  whose  mere  touch  is  a  dishonor  will  be  the  first  to 
cry  out  with  indignation  against  that  writer  as  shameless  who 
but  utters  the  truth  concerning  the  things  they  mean  and  do  : 
they  fear  lest  their  innocent  daughters,  into  whose  hands- his 
books  might  chance,  by  ill  luck,  to  fall,  should  learn  that  it  is 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE  115 

their  business  to  keep  themselves  pure. — Ah,  sweet  mothers  ! 
do  not  be  afraid.  You  have  brought  them  up  so  carefully, 
that  they  suspect  you  no  more  than  they  do  the  well-bred  gen- 
tlemen you  would  have  them  marry.  And  have  they  not  your 
blood  in  them  ?  That  will  go  far.  Never  heed  the  foolish 
puritan.  Your  mothers  succeeded  with  you  :  you  will  succeed 
with  your  daughters. 

But  it  is  a  shame  to  speak  of  those  things  that  are  done  of 
you  in  secret,  and  I  will  forbear.  Thank  God,  the  day  will 
come — it  may  be  thousands  of  years  away — when  there  shall  be 
no  such  things  for  a  man  to  think  of,  any  more  than  for  a  girl 
to  shudder  at !  There  is  a  purification  in  progress,  and  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  will  come,  thanks  to  the  Man  who  was 
holy,  harmless,  undefiled,  and  separate  from  sinners.  You 
have  heard  a  little,  probably  only  a  little,  about  him  at  church 
sometimes.  But,  when  that  day  comes,  what  part  will  you  have 
had  in  causing  evil  to  cease  from  the  earth  ? 

There  had  been  a  time  in  the  mother's  life  when  she  her- 
self regarded  her  approaching  marriage,  with  a  man  she  did  not 
love,  as  a  horror  to  which  her  natural  maidenliness — a  thing 
she  could  not  help — had  to  be  compelled  and  subjected  :  of  the 
true  maidenliness — that  before  which  the  angels  make  obei- 
sance, and  the  lion  cowers — she  never  had  had  any ;  for  that 
must  be  gained  by  the  pure  will  yielding  itself  to  the  power  of 
the  highest.  Hence  she  had  not  merely  got  used  to  the  horror, 
but  in  a  measure  satisfied  with  it ;  never  suspecting,  because 
never  caring  enough,  that  she  had  at  the  same  time,  and  that 
not  very  gradually,  been  assimilating  to  the  horror ;  had  lost 
much  of  what  purity  she  had  once  had,  and  become  herself  un- 
clean, body  and  mind,  in  the  contact  with  uncleanness.  One 
thing  she  did  know,  and  that  swallowed  up  all  the  rest — that 
her  husband's  affairs  were  so  involved  as  to  threaten  absolute 
poverty ;  and  what  woman  of  the  world  would  not  count 
damnation  better  than  that  ? — while  Mr.  Eedmain  was  rolling 
in  money.  Had  she  known  everything  bad  of  her  daughter's 
suitor,  short  of  legal  crime,  for  her  this  would  have  covered  it 
all. 

In  Hesper's  useless  explosion  the  mother  did  not  fail  to 


116  MARY  MAESTON. 

recognize  the  presence  of  Sepia,  without  whose  knowledge  of 
the  bad  side  of  the  world,  Hesper,  she  believed,  could  not  have 
been  awake  to  so  much.  But  she  was  afraid  of  Sepia.  Besides, 
the  thing  was  so  far  done  ;  and  she  did  not  think  she  would 
work  to  thwart  the  marriage.  On  that  point  she  would  speak 
to  her. 

But  it  was  a  doubtful  service  that  Sepia  had  rendered  her 
cousin — to  rouse  her  indignation  and  not  her  strength ;  to 
wake  horror  without  hinting  at  remedy  ;  to  give  knowledge 
of.  impending  doom,  without  poorest  suggestion  of  hope,  or 
vaguest  shadow  of  possible  escape.  It  is  one  thing  to  see  things 
as  they  are  ;  to  be  consumed  with  indignation  at  the  wrong  ; 
to  shiver  with  aversion  to  the  abominable ;  and  quite  another 
to  rouse  the  will  to  confront  the  devil,  and  resist  him  until  he 
flee.  For  this  the  whole  education  of  Hesper  had  tended  to 
unfit  her.  What  she  had  been  taught — and  that  in  a  world 
rendered  possible  only  by  the  self-denial  of  a  God — was  to  drift 
with  the  stream,  denying  herself  only  that  divine  strength  of 
honest  love,  which  would  soonest  help  her  to  breast  it. 

For  the  earth,  it  is  a  blessed  thing  that  those  who  arrogate 
to  themselves  the  holy  name  of  society,  and .  to  whom  so  large 
a  portion  of  the  foolish  world  willingly  yields  it,  are  in  reality 
so  few  and  so  ephemeral.  Mere  human  froth  are  they,  worked 
up  by  the  churning  of  the  world-sea — rainbow-tinted  froth, 
lovely  thinned  water,  weaker  than  the  unstable  itself  out  of 
which  it  is  blown.  Great  as  their  ordinance  seems,  it  is  evan- 
escent as  arbitrary  :  the  arbitrary  is  but  the  slavish  puffed  up 
— and  is  gone  with  the  hour.  The  life  of  the  people  is  below  ; 
it  ferments,  and  the  scum  is  for  ever  being,  skimmed  off,  and 
cast — God  knows  where.  All  is  scum  where  will  is  not.  They 
leave  behind  them  influences  indeed,  but  few  that  keep  their 
vitality  in  shapes  of  art  or  literature.  There  they  go — little 
sparrows  of  the  human  world,  chattering  eagerly,  darting  on 
every  crumb  and  seed  of  supposed  advantage  !  while  from  be- 
hind the  great  dustman's  cart,  the  huge  tiger-cat  of  an  eternal 
law  is  creeping  upon  them.  Is  it  a  spirit  of  insult  that  leads 
me  to  such  a  comparison  ?  Where  human  beings  do  not,  will 
not  will,  let  them  be  ladies  gracious  as  the  graces,  the  com- 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE.  11 Y 

parison  is  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  sparrows.  Not  time,  but 
experience  will  show  that,  although  indeed  a  simile,  this  is  no 
hyperbole. 

"I  will  leave  your  father  to  deal  with  you,  Hesper,"  said 
her  mother,  and  rose. 

Up  to  this  point,  Mortimer  children  had  often  resisted  their 
mother  ;  beyond  this  point,  never  more  than  once. 

"No,  please,  mamma  !"  returned  Hesper,  in  a  tone  of  ex- 
postulation. "  I  have  spoken  my  mind,  but  that  is  no  treason. 
As  my  father  has  referred  Mr.  Kedmain  to  me,  I  would  rather 
deal  with  him." 

Lady  Malice  was  herself  afraid  of  her  husband.  There  is 
many  a  woman,  otherwise  courageous  enough,  who  will  rather 
endure  the  worst  and  most  degrading,  than  encounter  articu- 
late insult.  The  mere  lack  of  conscience  gives  the  scoundrel 
advantage  incalculable  over  the  honest  man  ;  the  lack  of  refine- 
ment gives  a  similar  advantage  to  the  cad  over  the  gentleman  ; 
the  combination  of  the  two  lacks  elevates  the  husband  and 
father  into  an  autocrat.  Hesper  was  not  one  her  world  would 
have  counted  weak  ;  she  had  physical  courage  enough ;  she 
rode  well,  and  without  fear ;  she  sat  calm  in  the  dentist's 
chair ;  she  would  have  fought  with  knife  and  pistol  against 
violence  to  the  death  ;  and  yet,  rather  than  encounter  the  bru- 
tality of  an  evil-begotten  race  concentrated  in  her  father,  she 
would  yield  herself  to  a  defilement  eternally  more  defiling  than 
that  she  would  both  kill  arid  die  to  escape. 

"  Give  me  a  few  hours  first,  mamma,"  she  begged.  "  Don't 
let  him  come  to  me  just  yet.  For  all  your  hardness,  you  feel 
a  little  for  me — don't  you  ?  " 

"  Duty  is  always  hard,  my  child,"  said  Lady  Margaret. 
She  entirely  believed  it,  and  looked  on  herself  as  a  martyr,  a 
pattern  of  self-devotion  and  womanly  virtue.  But,  had  she 
been  certain  of  escaping  discovery,  she  would  have  slipped  the 
koh-i-noor  into  her  belt-pouch,  notwithstanding.  Never  once 
in  her  life  had  she  done  or  abstained  from  doing  a  thing  because 
that  thing  was  right  or  was  wrong.  Such  a  person,  be  she  as 
old  and  as  hard  as  the  hills,  is  mere  putty  in  the  fingers  of 
Beelzebub. 


118  MART  MARSTOK 

Hesper  rose  and  went  to  her  own  room.  There,  for  a  long 
hour,  she  sat — with  the  skin  of  her  fair  face  drawn  tight  over 
muscles  rigid  as  marble — sat  without  moving,  almost  without 
thinking — in  a  mere  hell  of  disgusted  anticipation.  She  neither 
stormed  nor  wept ;  her  life  went  smoldering  on ;  she  nerved 
herself  to  a  brave  endurance,  instead  of  a  far  braver  resistance. 

I  fancy  Hesper  would  have  been  a  little  shocked  if  one  had 
called  her  an  atheist.  She  went  to  church  most  Sundays — 
when  in  the  country ;  for,  in  the  opinion  of  Lady  Margaret,  it 
was  not  decorous  there  to  omit  the  ceremony  :  where  you  have 
influence  you  ought  to  set  a  good  example — of  hypocrisy, 
namely  !  But>  if  any  one  had  suggested  to  Hesper  a  certain  old- 
fashioned  use  of  her  chamber-door,  she  would  have  inwardly 
laughed  at  the  absurdity.  But,  then,  you  see,  her  chamber 
was  no  closet,  but  a  large  and  stately  room  ;  and,  besides,  how, 
alas !  could  the  child  of  Eoger  and  Lady  M.  Alice  Mortimer 
know  that  in  the  silence  was  hearing — that  in  the  vacancy  was 
a  power  waiting  to  be  sought  ?  Hesper  was  not  much  alone, 
and  here  was  a  chance  it  was  a  pity  she  should  lose ;  but,  when 
she  came  to  herself  with  a  sigh,  it  was  not  to  pray,  and,  when 
she  rose,  it  was  to  ring  the  bell.  > 

A  good  many  minutes  passed  before  it  was  answered.  She 
paced  the  room — swiftly  ;  she  could  sit)  but  she  could  not  walk 
slowly.  With  her  hands  to  her  head,  she  went  sweeping  up 
and  down.  Her  maid's  knock  arrested  her  before  her  toilet- 
table,  with  her  back  to  the  door.  In  a  voice  of  perfect  com- 
posure, she  desired  the  woman  to  ask  Miss  Yolland  to  come  to 
her. 

Entering  with  a  slight  stoop  from  the  waist,  Sepia,  with  a 
long,  rapid,  yet  altogether  graceful  step,  bore  down  upon  Hes- 
per like  a  fast-sailing  cutter  over  broad  waves,  relaxing  her 
speed  as  she  approached  her. 

"  Here  I  am,  Hesper  ! "  she  said. 

"Sepia,"  said  Hesper,  "I  am  sold." 

Miss  Yolland  gave  a  little  laugh,  showing  about  the  half  of 
her  splendid  teeth — a  laugh  to  which  Hesper  was  accustomed, 
but  the  meaning  of  which  she  did  not  understand — nor  would, 
without  learning  a  good  deal  that  were  better  left  unlearned. 


TEE  EC  MAN  SACRIFICE.  119 

"  To  Mr.  Redmain,  of  course  ! "  she  said. 

Hesper  nodded. 

"When  are  you  going  to  be — " — she  was  about  to  say  "cut 
up,"  but  there  was  a  something  occasionally  visible  in  Hesper 
that  now  and  then  checked  one  of  her  less  graceful  coarse- 
nesses. "  When  is  the  purchase  to  be  completed  ?  "  she  asked, 
instead. 

"  Good  Heavens,  Sepia  !  don't  be  so  heartless  !"  cried  Hes- 
per. "  Things  are  not  quite  so  bad  as  that !  I  am  not  yet  in 
the  hell  of  knowing  that.  The  day  is  not  fixed  for  the  great 
red  dragon  to  make  a  meal  of  me." 

"  I  see  you  were  not  asleep  in  church,  as  I  thought,  all  the 
time  of  the  sermon,  last  Sunday,"  said  Sepia. 

"  I  did  my  best,  but  I  could  not  sleep  :  every  time  little 
Mowbray  mentioned  the  beast,  I  thought  of  Mr.  Redmain ;  and 
it  made  me  too  miserable  to  sleep." 

"  Poor  Hesper  ! — Well !  let  us  hope  that,  like  the  beast  in 
the  fairy-tale,  he  will  turn  out  a  man  after  all." 

"  My  heart  will  break,"  cried  Hesper,  throwing  herself  into 
a  chair.     "  Pity  me,  Sepia  ;  you  love  me  a  little." 

A  slight  shadow  darkened  yet  more  Sepia's  shadowy 
brow. 

"Hesper,"  she  said,  gravely,  "you  never  told  me  there  was 
anything  of  that  sort !    Who  is  it  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Redmain,  of  course  ! — I  don't  know  what  you  mean, 
Sepia." 

"You  said  your  heart  was  breaking  :  who  is  it  for  ?"  asked 
Sepia,  almost  imperiously,  and  raising  her  voice  a  little. 

"  Sepia  ! "  cried  Hesper,  in  bewilderment. 

"Why  should  your  heart  be  breaking,  except  you  loved 
somebody  ?  " 

"Because  I  hate  7w'm,"  answered  Hesper. 

"Pooh!  is  that  all?"  returned  Miss  Yolland.  "If  there 
were  anybody  you  wanted — then  I  grant !  " 

"Sepia!"  said  Hesper,  almost  entreatingly,  "I  can  not 
bear  to  be  teased  to-day.  Do  be  open  with  me.  You  always 
puzzle  me  so  !  I  don't  understand  you  a  bit  better  than  the 
first  day  you  came  to  us.     I  have  got  used  to  you — that  is  all. 


120  MARY  MARSTOK 

Tell  me — are  you  my  friend,  or  are  you  in  league  with  mamma  ? 
I  have  my  doubts.     I  can't  help  it,  Sepia." 

She  looked  in  her  face  pitifully.  Miss  Yolland  looked  at 
her  calmly,  as  if  waiting  for  her  to  finish. 

"I  thought  you  would — not  help  me,"  Hesper  went  on, 
" — that  no  one  can  except  Grod — he  could  strike  me  dead; 
but  I  did  think  you  would  feel  for  me  a  little.  I  hate  Mr. 
Eedmain,  and  I  loathe  myself.  If  you  laugh  at  me,  I  shall 
take  poison." 

"I  wouldn't  do  that,"  returned  Miss  Yolland,  quite  grave- 
ly, and  as  if  she  had  already  contemplated  the  alternative ; 
" — that  is,  not  so  long  as  there  was  a  turn  of  the  game  left." 

"The  game  !"  echoed  Hesper.  " — Playing  for  love  with 
the  devil ! — I  wish  the  game  were  yours,  as  you  call  it ! " 

"Mine  I'd  make  it,  if  I  had  it  to  play,"  returned  Sepia. 
"I  wish  I  were  the  other  player  instead  of  you,  but  the  man 
hates  me.  Some  men  do. — Come,"  she  went  on,  "I  will  be 
open  with  you,  Hesper;  you  don't  hang  for  thoughts  in  Eng- 
land. I  will  tell  you  what  I  would  do  with  a  man  I  hated — 
that  is,  if  I  was  compelled  to  marry  him  ;  it  would  hardly  be 
fair  otherwise,  and  I  have  a  weakness  for  fair  play. — I  would 
give  him  absolute  fair  play." 

The  last  three  words  she  spoke  with  a  strange  expression  of 
mingled  scorn  and  jest,  then  paused,  and  seemed  to  have  said 
all  she  meant  to  say. 

"Go  on,"  sighed  Hesper  ;  "you  amuse  me."  Her  tone  ex- 
pressed anything  but  amusement.  "  "What  would  a  woman  of 
your  experience  do  in  my  place  ?  " 

Sepia  fixed  a  momentary  look  on  Hesper  ;  the  words  seemed 
to  have  stung  her.  She  knew  well  enough  that,  if  Lady  Malice 
came  to  know  anything  of  her  real  history,  she  would  have 
bare  time  to  pack  up  her  small  belongings.  She  wanted  Hes- 
per married,  that  she  might  go  with  her  into  the  world  again  ; 
at  the  same  time,  she  feared  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Eedmain 
would  hardly  favor  her  wishes.  But  she  could  not  with  pru- 
dence do  anything  expressly  to  prevent  it ;  while  she  might 
even  please  Mr.  Eedmain  a  little,  if  she  were  supposed  to  have 
used  influence  on  his  side.     That,  however,  must  not  seem  to 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE.  121 

Hesper.  Sepia  did  not  yet  know  in  fact  upon  what  ground  she 
had  to  build. 

For  some  time  she  had  been  trying  to  get  nearer  to  Hesper, 
but — much  like  Hesper's  experience  with  her — had  found  her- 
self strangely  baffled,  she  could  not  tell  how — the  barrier  being 
simply  the  half  innocence,  half  ignorance,  of  Hesper.  When 
minds  are  not  the  same,  words  do  not  convey  between  them. 

She  gave  a  ringing  laugh,  throwing  back  her  head,  and 
showing  all  her  fine  teeth. 

"You  want  to  know  what  I  would  do  with  a  man  I  hated, 
as  you  say  you  hate  Mr.  Eedmain  ? — I  would  send  for  him  at 
once — not  wait  for  him  to  come  to  me — and  entreat  him,  as  he 
loved  me,  to  deliver  me  from  the  dire  necessity  of  obeying  my 
father.  If  he  were  a  gentleman,  as  I  hope  he  may  be,  he  would 
manage  to  get  me  out  of  it  somehow,  and  wouldn't  compromise 
me  a  hair's  breadth.  But,  that  is,  if  I  ivere  you.  If  I  were  my- 
self in  your  circumstances,  and  hated  him  "as  you  do,  that  would 
not  serve  my  turn.  I  would  ask  him  all  the  same  to  set  me 
free,  but  I  would  behave  myself  so  that  he  could  not  do  it. 
While  I  begged  him,  I  mean,  I  should  make  him  feel  that  he 
could  not — should  make  him  absolutely  determined  to  marry 
me,  at  any  price  to  him,  and  at  whatever  cost  to  me.  He 
should  say  to  himself  that  I  did  not  mean  what  I  said — as,  in- 
deed, for  the  sake  of  my  revenge,  I  should  not.  For  that  I 
would  give  anything — supposing  always,  don't  you  know  ?  that 
I  hated  him  as  you  do  Mr.  Eedmain.  He  should  declare  to  me 
it  was  impossible  ;  that  he  would  die  rather  than  give  up  the 
most  precious  desire  of  his  life — and  all  that  rot,  you  know.  I 
would  tell  him  I  hated  him— only  so  that  he  should  not  believe 
me.  I  would  say  to  him,  '  Eelease  me,  Mr.  Eedmain,  or  I  will 
make  you  repent  it.  I  have  given  you  fair  warning.  I  have 
told  you  I  hated  you.'  He  should  persist,  should  marry  me, 
and  then  I  would.'" 

"Would  what?" 

"Do  as  I  said." 

"But  what?" 

"  Make  him  repent  it." 

With  the  words,  Miss  Yolland  broke  into  a  second  fit  of 

6 


122  MART  MARSTON. 

laughter,  and,  turning  from  Hesper,  went,  with  a  kind  of  loi- 
tering, strolling  pace  toward  the  door,  glancing  round  more 
than  once,  each  time  with  a  fresh  bubble  rather  than  ripple  in 
her  laughter.  Whether  it  was  all  nonsensical  merriment,  or 
whether  the  author  of  laughter  without  fun,  Beelzebub  him- 
self, was  at  the  moment  stirring  in  her,  Hesper  could  not  have 
told  ;  as  it  was,  she  sat  staring  after  her,  unable  even  to  think. 
Just  as  she  reached  the  door,  however,  she  turned  quickly,  and, 
with  the  smile  of  a  hearty,  innocent  child,  or  something  very 
like  it,  ran  back  to  Hesper,  threw  her  arms  round  her,  and 
said: 

"  There,  now  !  I've  done  for  you  what  I  could  :  I  have  made 
you  forget  the  odious  man  for  a  moment.  I  was  curious  to 
know  whether  I  could  not  make  a  bride  forget  her  bridegroom. 
The  other  thing  is  too  easy." 

"What  other  thing?" 

"To  make  a  bridegroom  forget  his  bride,  of  course,  you 
silly  child  ! — But  there  I  am,  off  again  !  when  really  it  is  time 
to  be  serious,  and  come  to  the  only  important  point  in  the  mat- 
ter.— In  what  shade  of  purity  do  you  think  of  ascending  the 
funeral  pyre  ? — In  absolute  white  ? — or  rose-tinged  ? — or  cream- 
colored  ! — or  gold-suspect  ? — Eh,  happy  bride  ?  " 

As  she  ceased,  she  turned  her  head  away,  pulled  out  her 
handkerchief,  and  whimpered  a  little. 

"Sepia!"  said  Hesper,  annoyed,  "you  are  a  worse  goose 
than  I  thought  you  !  What  have  you  got  to  cry  about  ?  "  You 
have  not  got  to  marry  him  ! " 

"No  ;  I  wish  I  had  !"  returned  Sepia,  wiping  her  eyes. 
"  Then  I  shouldn't  lose  you.     I  should  take  care  of  that." 

"And  am  I  likely  to  gain  such  a  friend  in  Mr.  Eedmain  as 
to  afford  the  loss  of  the  only  other  friend  I  have  ?"  said  Hesper, 
calmly. 

"  Ah,  Hesper  !  a  sad  experience  has  taught  me  differently. 
The  moment  you  are  married  to  the  man — as  married  you  will  be 
— you  all  are — bluster  as  you  may — that  moment  you  will  begin 
to  change  into  a  wife — a  domesticated  animal,  that  is — a  tame 
tabby.  Unwilling  a  woman  must  be  to  confess  herself  only  the 
better  half  of  a  low-bred  brute,  with  a  high  varnish — or  not,  as 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE.  123 

the  case  may  be  ;  and  there  is  nothing  left  her  to  do  but  set 
herself  to  find  out  the  wretch's  virtues,  or,  as  he  hasn't  got  any, 
to  invent  for  him  the  least  unlikely  ones.  She  wants  for  her 
own  sake  to  believe  in  him,  don't  you  know  ?  Then  she  begins 
to  repent  having  said  hard  words  of  the  poor  gentleman.  The 
next  thing,  of  course,  will  be,  that  you  begin  to  hate  the  person, 
to  whom  you  said  them,  and  to  persuade  yourself  she  drew 
them  out  of  you ;  and  so  you  break  off  all  communication 
with  the  obnoxious  person ;  who  being,  in  the  present  instance, 
that  black-faced  sheep,  Sepia  Yolland,  she  is  very  sorry  before- 
hand, and  hates  Mr.  Eedmain  with  all  her  heart ;  first,  because 
Hesper  Mortimer  hates  him,  and  next,  but  twice  as  much,  be- 
cause she  is  going  to  love  him.  It  is  a  great  pity  you  should 
have  him,  Hesper.  I  wish  you  would  hand  him  over  to  me.  1 
shouldn't  mind  what  he  was.     I  should  soon  tame  him." 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  said  Hesper,  with 
righteous  indignation.     "  You  would  not  mind  tvhat  lie  ivas  !  " 

Sepia  laughed — this  time  her  curious  half -laugh. 

"  If  I  did,  I  wouldn't  marry  him,  Hesper,"  she  said. 
"  Which  is  worse — not  to  mind,  and  marry  him  ;  or  to  mind, 
and  marry  him  all  the  same  ?    Eh,  Cousin  Hesper  Mortimer  ?  " 

"  I  can't  make  you  out,  Sepia  ! "  said  Hesper.  "  I  believe  I 
never  shall." 

"  Very  likely.     Give  it  up  ?  " 

"Quite." 

"  The  best  thing  you  could  do.  I  can't  always  make  my- 
self out.  But,  then,  I  always  give  it  up  directly,  and  so  it  does 
me  no  harm.  But  it's  ten  times  worse  to  worry  your  poor  lit- 
tle heart  to  rags  about  such  a  man  as  that ;  he's  not  worth  a 
thought  from  a  grand  creature  like  you.  Where's  the  use,  be- 
sides ?  Would  you  stand  staring  at  your  medicine  a  whole  day 
before  the  time  for  taking  it  comes  ?  I  wouldn't  have  my  right 
leg  cut  ofE  because  that  is  the  side  my  dog  walks  on,  and  dogs 
go  mad  !  Slip,  cup,  and  lip — don't  you  know  ?  The  man  may 
be  underground  long  before  the  wedding-day  :  he's  anything 
but  sound,  they  tell  me.  But  it  would  be  far  better  soon  after 
it,  of  course.  Think  only — a  young  widow,  rich,  and  not  a 
straw  the  worse  ! " 


124  MARY  MARSTON. 

"  Sepia,  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  tell  whether  you  are  a 
Job's  comforter  or  the  devil's  advocate." 

"Not  the  latter,  my  child  ;  for  I  want  to  see  you  emerge  a 
saint  from  the  miseries  of  matrimony.  But,  whatever  you  do, 
Hesper,  don't  break  your  heart,  for  you  will  find  it  hard  to 
mend.     I  broke  mine  once,  and  have  been  mad  ever  since." 

"What  is  the  use  of  saying  that  to  me,  when  you  know  I 
have  to  marry  the  man  ?  " 

'"  I  never  said  you  were  not  to  marry  him  ;  I  said  you  were 
not  to  break  your  heart.  Marriage  is  nothing  so  long  as  you 
do  not  make  a  heart  affair  of  it ;  that  hurts  ;  and,  as  you  are 
not  in  love,  there  is  no  occasion  for  it  at  all." 

ei  Marriage  is  nothing,  Sepia  !  Is  it  nothing  to  be  tied  to  a 
man — to  any  man— f or  all  your  life  ?  " 

-  "  That's  as  you  take  it.  Nobody  makes  so  much  of  it  now- 
adays as  they  used.  The  clergy  themselves,  who  are  at  the 
bottom  of  all  the  business,  don't  fuss  about  every  trifle  in  the 
prayer-book.  They  sign  the  articles,  and  have  done  with  it — 
meaning,  of  course,  to  break  them,  if  they  stand  in  their  way." 

Hesper  rose  in  anger. 

"How  dare  you — "  she  began. 

"  Good  gracious  ! "  cried  Sepia,  "you  don't  imagine  I  meant 
anything  so  wicked  !  How  could  you  let  such  a  thing  come 
into  your  head  ?    I  declare  you  are  quite  dangerous  to  talk  to  !  " 

"It's  such  a  horrible  business,"  said  Hesper,  "it  seems  to 
make  one  capable  of  anything  wicked,  only  to  think  about  it. 
I  would  rather  not  say  another  word  on  the  subject." 

A  shudder  ran  through  her,  as  if  at  the  sight  of  some  hid- 
eously offensive  object. 

"  That  would  be  the  best  thing,"  said  Sepia,  "  if  it  meant 
not  think  more  about  it.  Everything  is  better  for  not  being 
thought  about.  I  would  do  anything  to  comfort  you,  dear.  I 
would  marry  him  for  you,  if  that  would  do  ;  but  I  fear  it  would 
scarcely  meet  the  views  of  Herr  Papa.  If  I  could  please  the 
beast  as  well — and  I  think  I  should  in  time — I  would  willingly 
hand  him  the  purchase-money.  But,  of  course,  he  would  scorn 
to  touch  it,  except  as  the  proceeds  of  the  lona-fide  sale  of  his 
own  flesh  and  blood." 


UNGENEROUS  BENEVOLENCE.  125 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

UNGENEROUS  BENEVOLENCE. 

As  the  time  went  on,  and  Letty  saw  nothing  more  of  Tom, 
she  began  to  revive  a  little,  and  feel  as  if  she  were  growing  safe 
again.  The  tide  of  temptation  was  ebbing  away ;  there  would 
be  no  more  deceit ;  never  again  would  she  place  herself  in  cir- 
cumstances whence  might  arise  any  necessity  for  concealment. 
She  began,  much  too  soon,  alas  !  to  feel  as  if  she  were  new- 
born ;  nothing  worthy  of  being  called  a  new  birth  can  take 
place  anywhere  but  in  the  will,  and  poor  Letty's  will  was  not 
yet  old  enough  to  give  birth  to  anything  ;  it  scarcely,  indeed, 
existed.  The  past  was  rapidly  receding,  that  was  all,  and  had 
begun  to  look  dead,  and  as  if  it  wanted  only  to  be  buried  out 
of  her  sight.  For  what  is  done  is  done,  in  small  faults  as  well 
as  in  murders ;  and,  as  nothing  can  recall  it,  or  make  it  not  be, 
where  can  be  the  good  in  thinking  about  it  ? — a  reasoning 
worse  than  dangerous,  before  one  has  left  off  being  capable  of 
the  same  thing  over  again.  Still,  in  the  mere  absence  of  re- 
newed offense,  it  is  well  that  some  shadow  of  peace  should 
return  ;  else  how  should  men  remember  the  face  of  innocence  ? 
or  how  should  they  live  long  enough  to  learn  to  repent  ?  But 
for  such  breaks,  would  not  some  grow  worse  at  full  gallop  ? 

That  the  idea  of  Tom's  friendship  was  very  pleasant  to  her, 
who  can  blame  her  ?  He  had  never  said  he  loved  her  ;  he  had 
only  said  she  was  lovely  :  was  she  therefore  bound  to  persuade 
herself  he  meant  nothing  at  all  ?  Was  it. not  as  much  as  could 
be  required  of  her,  that,  in  her  modesty,  she  took  him  for  no 
more  than  a  true,  kind  friend,  who  would  gladly  be  of  service 
to  her  ?  Ah  !  if  Tom  had  but  been  that !  If  he  was  not,  he 
did  not  know  it,  which  is  something  to  say  both  for  and  against' 
him.  It  could  not  be  other  than  pleasant  to  Letty  to  have  one, 
in  her  eyes  so  superior,  who  would  talk  to  her  as  an  equal.  It 
was  not  that  ever  she  resented  being  taught ;  but  she  did  get 
tired  of  lessons  only,  beautiful  as  they  were.  A  kiss  from  Mrs. 
Wardour,  or  a  little  teasing  from  Cousin  Godfrey,  would  have 


126  MART  MARSTOK 

done  far  more  than  all  his  intellectual  labor  upon  her  to  lift 
her  feet  above  such  snares  as  she  was  now  walking  amid.  She 
needed  some  play — a  thing  far  more  important  to  life  than  a 
great  deal  of  what  is  called  business  and  acquirement.  Many 
a  matter,  over  which  grown  people  look  important,  long-faced, 
and  consequential,  is  folly,  compared  with  the  merest  child's 
frolic,  in  relation  to  the  true  affairs  of  existence. 

All  the  time,  Letty  had  not  in  the  least  neglected  her  house- 
duties  ;  and,  again,  her  readings  with  her  cousin  Godfrey,  since 
Tom's  apparent  recession,  had  begun  to  revive  in  interest!  He 
grew-kinder  and  kinder  to  her,  more  and  more  fatherly. 

But  the  mother,  once  disquieted,  had  lost  no  time  in  taking 
measures.  In  every  direction,  secretly,  through  friends,  she 
was  inquiring  after  some  situation  suitable  for  Letty  :  she  owed 
it  to  herself,  she  said,  to  find  for  the  girl  the  right  thing,  before 
sending  her  from  the  house.  In  the  true  spirit  of  benevolent 
tyranny,  she  said  not  a  word  to  Letty  of  her  design.  She  had 
the  chronic  distemper  of  concealment,  where  Letty  had  but  a 
feverish  attack.  Much  false  surmise  might  have  been  correct- 
ed, and  much  evil  avoided,  had  she  put  it  in  Letty's  power  to 
show  how  gladly  she  would  leave  Thornwick.  In  the  mean 
time  the  old  lady  kept  her  lynx-eye  upon  the  young  people. 

But  Godfrey,  having  caught  a  certain  expression  in  the  said 
eye,  came  to  the  resolution  that  thenceforth  their  schoolroom 
should  be  the  common  sitting-room.  This,  would  aid  him  in 
carrying  out  his  resolve  of  a  cautious  and  staid  demeanor  toward 
his  pupil.  To  preserve  his  freedom,  he  must  keep  himself 
thoroughly  in  hand.  Experience  had  taught  him  that,  were 
he  once  to  give  way  and  show  his  affection,  there  would  from 
that  moment  be  an  end  of  teaching  and  learning.  And  yet  so 
much  was  he  drawn  to  the  girl,  that,  at  this  very  time,  he  gave 
her  the  manuscript  of  his  own  verses  to  which  I  have  referred 
— a  volume  exquisitely  written,  and  containing,  certainly,  the 
outcome  of  the  best  that  was  in  him  :  he  did  not  tell  her  that 
he  had  copied  them  all  with  such  care  and  neatness,  and  had 
the  book  so  lovelily  bound,  expressly  and  only  for  her  eyes. 

News  of  something  that  seemed  likely  to  suit  her  ideas  for 
Letty  at  length  came  to  Mrs.  "Wardour's  ears,  whereupon  she 


UNGENEROUS  BENEVOLENCE.  127 

thought  it  time  to  prepare  the  girl  for  the  impending  change. 
One  day,  therefore,  as  she  herself  sat  knitting  one  sock  for 
Godfrey,  and  Letty  darning  another,  she  opened  the  matter. 

"I  am  getting  old,  Letty,"  she  said,-  "and  you  can't  be 
here  always.  You  are  a  thoughtless  creature,  hut  I  suppose 
you  have  the  sense  to  see  that  ?  " 

"Yes,  indeed,  aunt,"  answered  Letty. 

"It  is  high  time  you  should  be  thinking,"  Mrs.  Wardour 
went  on,  "  how  you  are  to  earn  your  bread.  If  you  left  it  till 
I  was  gone,  you  would  find  it  very  awkward,  for  you  would 
have  to  leave  Thornwick  at  once,  and  I  don't  know  who  would 
take  you  while  you  were  looking  out.  I  must  see  you  com- 
fortably settled  before  I  go." 

"Yes,  aunt." 

"There  are  not  many  things  you  could  do." 

"  No,  aunt ;  very  few.  But  I  should  make  a  better  house- 
maid than  most — I  do  believe  that." 

"I  am  glad  to  find  you  willing  to  work ;  but  we  shall  be 
able,  I  trust,  to  do  a  little  better  for  you  than  that.  A  situa- 
tion as  housemaid  would  reflect  little  credit  on  my  pains  for 
you — would  hardly  correspond  to  the  education  you  have  had." 

Mrs.  Wardour  referred  to  the  fact  that  Letty  was  for  about 
a  year  a  day-boarder  at  a  ladies'  school  in  Testbridge,  where  no 
immortal  soul,  save  that  of  a  genius,  which  can  provide  its 
own  sauce,  could  have  taken  the  least  interest  in  the  chaff  and 
chopped  straw  that  composed  the  provender. 

"It  is  true,"  her  aunt  went  on,  "you  might  have  made  a 
good  deal  more  of  it,  if  you  had  cared  to  do  your  best ;  but, 
such  as  you  are,  I  trust  we  shall  find  you  a  very  tolerable  situ- 
ation as  governess." 

At  the  word,  Letty's  heart  ran  half-way  up  her  throat.  A 
more  dreadful  proposal  she  could  not  have  imagined.  She 
felt,  and  was,  utterly  insufficient  for — indeed,  incapable  of  such 
an  office.  She  felt  she  knew  nothing  :  how  was  she  to  teach 
anything?  Her  heart  seemed  to  grow  gray  within  her.  By 
nature,  from  lack  of  variety  of  experience,  yet  more  from 
daily  repression  of  her  natural  joyousness,  she  was  exceptionally 
apprehensive  where  anything  was  required  of  her.     What  she 


128  MART  MARSTOK 

understood,  she  encountered  willingly  and  bravely ;  but,  the 
simplest  thing  that  seemed  to  involve  any  element  of  obscurity, 
she  dreaded  like  a  dragon  in  his  den. 

"You  don't  seem  to  relish  the  proposal,  Letty,"  said  Mrs. 
Wardour.  "I  hope  you  had  not  taken  it  in  your  head  that  I 
meant  to  leave  you  independent.  What  I  have  done  for  you, 
I  have  done  purely  for  your  father's  sake.  I  was  under  no 
obligation  to  take  the  least  trouble  about  you.  But  I  have 
more  regard  to  your  welfare  than  I  fear  you  give  me  credit  for." 

"  0  aunt !  it's  only  that  I'm  not  fit  for  being  a  governess. 
I  shouldn't  a  bit  mind  being  dairymaid  or  housemaid.  I 
would  go  to  such  a  place  to-morrow,  if  you  liked. " 

"Letty,  your  tastes  may  be  vulgar,  but  you  owe  it  to  your 
family  to  look  at  least  like  a  lady." 

"  But  I  am  not  scholar  enough  for  a  governess,  aunt." 

"  That  is  not  my  fault.  I  sent  you  to  a  good  school.  Now, 
I  will  find  you  a  good  situation,  and  you  must  contrive  to  keep 
it." 

"  0  aunt !  let  me  stay  here— just  as  I  am.  Call  me  your 
dairymaid  or  your  housemaid.  It  is  all  one — I  do  the  work 
now." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  reflect  on  me  that  I  have  required  menial 
offices  of  you  ?  I  have  been  to  you  in  the  place  of  a  mother  ; 
and  it  is  for  me,  not  for  you,  to  make  choice  of  your  path  in 
life." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  at  once  ?"  asked  Letty,  her  heart 
sinking  again,  and  her  voice  trembling  with  a  pathos  her  aunt 
quite  misunderstood. 

"As  soon  as  I  have  secured  for  you  a  desirable  situation — 
not  before,"  answered  Mrs.  Wardour,  in  a  tone  generously  pro- 
tective. 

Her  affection  for  the  girl  had  never  been  deep;  and,  the 
moment  she  fancied  she  and  her  son  were  drawing  toward  each 
other,  she  became  to  her  the  thawed  adder :  she  wished  the 
adder  well,  but  was  she  bound  to  harbor  it  after  it  had  begun 
to  bite  ?  There  are  who  never  learn  to  see  anything  except  in 
its  relation  to  themselves,  nor  that  relation  except  as  fancied 
by  themselves  ;  and,  this  being  a  withering  habit  of  mind,  they 


UNGENEROUS  BENEVOLENCE.  129 

keep  growing  drier,  and  older,  and  smaller,  and  deader,  the 
longer  they  live — thinking  less  of  other  peojDle,  and  more  of 
themselves  and  their  past  experience,  all  the  time  as  they  go  on 
withering. 

Bnt  Mrs.  Wardour  was  in  some  dread  of  what  her  son 
would  say  when  he  came  to  know  what  she  had  been  doing ; 
for,  when  we  are  not  at  ease  with  ourselves,  when  conscience 
keeps  moving  as  if  about  to  speak,  then  we  dread  the  disap- 
proval of  the  lowliest,  and  Godfrey  was  the  only  one  before 
whom  his  mother  felt  any  kind  of  awe.  Toward  him,  there- 
fore, she  kept  silence  for  the  present.  If  she  had  spoken 
then,  things  might  have  gone  very  differently  :  it  might  have 
brought  Godfrey  to  the  point  of  righteous  resolve  or  of  pas- 
sionate utterance.  He  could  not  well  have  opposed  his 
mother's  design  without  going  further  and  declaring  that,  if 
Letty  would,  she  should  remain  where  she  was,  the  mistress 
of  the  house.  If  not  the  feeling  of  what  was  due  to  her,  the 
dread  of  the  house  without  her  might  well  have  brought  him 
to  this. 

Letty,  for  her  part,  believed  her  cousin  Godfrey  regarded 
her  with  pity,  and  showed  her  kindness  from  a  generous  sense 
of  duty ;  she  was  a  poor,  dull  creature  for  whom  her  cousin 
must  do  what  he  could  :  one  word  of  genuine  love  from  him, 
one  word  even  of  such  love  as  was  in  him,  would  have  caused 
her  nature  to.  shoot  heavenward  and  spread  out  earthward 
with  a  rapidity  that  would  have  astonished  him  ;  she  would 
thereby  have  come  into  her  spiritual  property  at  once,  and 
heaven  would  have  opened  to  her — a  little  way  at  least — prob- 
ably to  close  again  for  a  time.  Now  she  felt  crushed.  The 
idea  of  undertaking  that  for  which  she  knew  herself  so  ill 
fitted  was  not  merely  odious  but  frightful  to  her.  She  was 
ready  enough  to  work,  but  it  must  be  real,  not  sham  work. 
She  must  see  and  consult  Mary !  This  was  quite  another 
affair  from  Tom  !  She  would  take  the  first  opportunity.  In 
the  mean  time  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  or  said ;  and  with 
a  heavy  heart  she  held  her  peace — only  longed  for  her  own 
room,  that  she  might  have  a  cry.  To  her  comfort  the  clock 
struck  ten,  and  all  that  now  lay  between  her  and  that  refuge 


130  MARY  MARSTOK 

was  the  usual  round  of  the  house  with  Mrs.  Wardour,  to  see 
all  safe  for  the  night.  That  done,  they  parted,  and  Letty 
went  slowly  and  sadly  up  the  stair.  It  was  a  dark  prospect 
before  her.  At  best,  she  had  to  leave  the  only  home  she  re- 
membered, and  go  among  strangers. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE    MOONLIGHT. 

It  was  a  still,  frosty  night,  with  a  full  moon.  When  she 
reached  her  chamber,  Letty  walked  mechanically  to  the  win- 
dow, and  there  stood,  with  the  candle  in  her  hand,  looking 
carelessly  out,  nor  taking  any  pleasure  in  the  great  night. 
The  window  looked  on  an  open,  grassy  yard,  where  were  a  few 
large  ricks  of  wheat,  shining  yellow  in  the  cold,  far-off  moon. 
Between  the  moon  and  the  earth  hung  a  faint  mist,,  which  the 
thin  clouds  of  her  breath  seemed  to  mingle  with  and  augment. 
There  lay  her  life — out  of  doors — dank  and  dull ;  all  the  sum- 
mer faded  from  it — all  its  atmosphere  a  growing  fog !  She 
would  never  see  Tom  again  !  It  was  six  weeks  since  she  saw 
him  last !  He  must  have  ceased  to  think  of  her  by  this  time  ! 
And,  if  he  did  think  of  her  again,  she  would  be  far  off,  nobody 
knew  where. 

Something  struck  the  window  with  a  slight,  sharp  clang. 
It  was  winter,  and  there  were  no  moths  or  other  insects  flying. 
What  could  it  be  ?  She  put  her  face  close  to  the  pane,  and 
looked  out.  There  was  a  man  in  the  shadow  of  one  of  the 
ricks  !  He  had  his  hat  off,  and  was  beckoning  to  her.  It 
could  be  nobody  but  Tom  !  The  thought  sent  to  her  heart  a 
pang  of  mingled  pleasure  and  pain.  Clearly  he  wanted  to 
speak  to  her  !  How  gladly  she  would  !  but  then  would  come 
again  all  the  trouble  of  conscious  deceit  :  how  was  she  to  bear 
that  all  over  again  !  Still,  if  she  was  going  to  be  turned  out 
of  the  house  so  soon,  what  would  it  matter  ?  If  her  aunt  was 
going  to  compel  her  to  be  her  own  mistress,  where  was  the 


THE  MOONLIGHT.  131 

harm  if  she  began  it  a  few  days  sooner  ?  What  did  it  matter 
anyhow  what  she  did  ?  But  she  dared  not  speak  to  him ! 
Mrs.  Wardour's  ears  were  as  sharp  as  her  eyes.  The  very 
sound  of  her  own  voice  in  the  moonlight  would  terrify  her. 
She  opened  the  lattice  softly,  and  gently  shaking  her  head — 
she  dared  not  shake  it  vigorously — was  on  the  point  of  closing 
it  again,  when,  making  frantic  signs  of  entreaty,  the  man 
stepped  into  the  moonlight,  and  it  was  plainly  Tom.  It  was 
too  dreadful !  He  might  he  seen  any  moment !  She  shook  her 
head  again,  in  a  way  she  meant,  and  he  understood,  to  mean 
she  dared  not.  He  fell  on  his  knees  and  laid  his  hands  to- 
gether like  one  praying.  Her  heart  interpreted  the  gesture 
as  indicating  that  he  was  in  trouble,  and  that,  therefore,  he 
begged  her  to  go  to  him.  With  sudden  resolve  she  nodded 
acquiescence,  and  left  the  window. 

Her  room  was  in  a  little  wing,  projecting  from  the  back  of 
the  house,  over  the  kitchen.  The  servants'  rooms  were  in 
another  part,  but  Letty  forgot  a  tiny  window  in  one  of  them, 
which  looked  also  upon  the  ricks.  There  was  a  back  stair  to 
the  kitchen,  and  in  the  kitchen  a  door  to  the  farm-yard.  She 
stole  down  the  stair,  and  opened  the  door  with  absolute  noise - 
lessness.  In  a  moment  more  she  had  stolen  on  tiptoe  round 
the  corner,  and  was  creeping  like  a  ghost  among  the  ricks. 
Not  even  a  rustle  betrayed  her  as  she  came  up  to  Tom  from 
behind.  He  still  knelt  where  she  had  left  him,  looking  up  to 
her  window,  which  gleamed  like  a  dead  eye  in  the  moonlight. 
She  stood  for  a  moment,  afraid  to  move,  lest  she  should  startle 
him,  and  he  should  call  out,  for  the  slightest  noise  about  the 
place  would  bring  Godfrey  down.  The  next  moment,  however, 
Tom,  aware  of  her  presence,  sprang  to  his  feet,  and,  turning, 
bounded  to  her,  and  took  her  in  his  arms.  Still  possessed  by 
the  one  terror  of  making  a  noise,  she  did  not  object  even  by  a 
contrary  motion,  and,  when  he  took  her  hand  to  lead  her  away 
out  of  sight  of  the  house,  she  yielded  at  once. 

When  they  were  safe  in  the  field  behind  the  hedge — 
"Why  did  you  make  me  come  down,  Tom?"  she  whis- 
pered, half  choked  with  fear,  looking  up  in  his  face,  which 
was  radiant  in  the  moonshine. 


132  MARY  MARSTOK 

"  Because  I  could  not  bear  it  one  day  longer/'  he  answered. 
"All  this  time  I  have  been  breaking  my  heart  to  get  a  word 
with  you,  and  never  seeing  you  except  at  church,  and  there 
you  would  never  even  look  at  me.  It  is  cruel  of  you,  Letty. 
I  know  you  could  manage  it,  if  you  liked,  well  enough.  Why 
should  you  try  me  so  ?  " 

"  Do  speak  a  little  lower,  Tom  :  sound  goes  so  far  at 
night ! — I  didn't  know  you  would  want  to  see  me  like  that," 
she  answered,  looking  up  in  his  face  with  a  pleased  smile. 

"Didn't  know!"  repeated  Tom.  "I  want  nothing  else, 
think  of  nothing  else,  dream  of  nothing  else.  Oh,  the  delight 
of  having  you  here  all  alone  to  myself  at  last !  You  darling 
Letty  ! " 

"  But  I  must  go  directly,  Tom.  I  have  no  business  to  be 
out  of  the  house  at  this  time  of  the  night.  If  you  hadn't 
made  me  think  you  were  in  some  trouble,  I  daredn't  have 
come." 

"And  ain't  I  in  trouble  enough — trouble  that  nothing  but 
your  coming  could  get  me  out  of  ?  To  love  your  very  shadow, 
and  not  be  able  to  get  a  peep  even  of  that,  except  in  church, 
where  all  the  time  of  the  service  I'm  raging  inside  like  a  wild 
beast  in  a  cage — ain't  that  trouble  enough  to  make  you  come 
to  me  ?  " 

Letty's  heart  leaped  up.  He  loved  her,  then  !  Love,  real 
love,  was  what  it  meant !  It  was  paradise  !  Anything  might 
come  that  would  !  She  would  be  afraid  of  nothing  any  more. 
They  might  say  or  do  to  her  what  they  pleased— she  did  not 
care  a  straw,  if  he  loved  her — really  loved  her  !  And  he  did  ! 
he  did  !  She  was  going  to  have  him  all  to  her  own  self,  and 
nobody  was  to  have  any  right  to  meddle  with  her  more  ! 

"I  didn't  know  you  loved  me,  Tom!"  she  said,  simply, 
with  a  little  gasp.   . 

"  And  I  don't  know  yet  whether  you  love  me,"  returned 
Tom. 

"  Of  course,  if  you  love  me,"  answered  Letty,  as  if  every- 
body must  give  back  love  for  love. 

Tom  took  her  again  in  his  arms,  and  Letty  was  in  greater 
bliss  than  she  had  ever  dreamed  possible.     From  being  a  no- 


TEE  MOONLIQET.  133 

body  in  the  world,  she  might  now  queen  it  to  the  top  of  her 
modest  bent;  from  being  looked  down  on  by  everybody,  she 
had  the  whole  earth  under  her  feet ;  from  being  utterly  friend- 
less, she  had  the  heart  of  Tom  Helmer  for  her  own  !  Yet  even 
then,  eluding  the  barriers  of  Tom's  arms,  shot  to  her  heart, 
sharp  as  an  arrow,  the  thought  that  she  was  forsaking  Cousin 
Godfrey.  She  did  not  attempt  to  explain  it  to  herself ;  she 
was  in  too  great  confusion,  even  if  she  had  been  capable  of  the 
necessary  analysis.  It  came,  probably,  of  what  her  aunt  had 
told  her  concerning  her  cousin's  opinion  of  Tom.  Often  and 
often  since,  she  had  said  to  herself  that,  of  course,  Cousin  God- 
frey was  mistaken  and  quite  wrong  in  not  liking  Tom  ;  she 
was  sure  he  would  like  him  if  he  knew  him  as  she  did  ! — and 
yet  to  act  against  his  opinion,  and  that  never  uttered  to  her- 
self, cost  her  this  sharp  pang,  and  not  a  few  that  followed  ! 
To  soften  it  for  the  moment,  however,  came  the  vaguely,  sadly 
reproachful  feeling,  that,  seeing  they  were  about  to  send  her 
out  into  the  world  to  earn  her  bread,  they  had  no  more  any  right 
to  make  such  demands  upon  her  loyalty  to  them  as  should  ex- 
clude the  closest  and  only  satisfying  friend  she  had — one  who 
would  not  turn  her  away,  but  wanted  to  have  her  for  ever. 
That  Godfrey  knew  nothing  of  his  mother's  design,  she  did  not 
once  suspect. 

"  Now,  Tom,  you  have  seen  me,  and  spoken  to  me,  and  I 
must  go,"  said  Letty. 

'  "0  Letty  ! "  cried  Tom,  reproachfully,  " now  when  we 
understand  each  other  ?  Would  you  leave  me  in  the  very  mo- 
ment of  my  supremest  bliss  ?  That  would  be  mockery,  Letty  ! 
That  is  the  way  my  dreams  serve  me  always.  But,  surely,  you 
are  no  dream  !  Perhaps  I  am  dreaming,  and  shall  wake  to 
find  myself  alone  !  I  never  was  so  happy  in  my  life,  and  you 
want  to  leave  me  all  alone  in  the  midnight,  with  the  moon  to 
comfort  me  !  Do  as  you  like,  Letty  ! — I  won't  leave  the  place 
till  the  morning.  I  will  go  back  to  the  rick-yard,  and  lie  under 
your  window  all  night." 

The  idea  of  Tom  out  on  the  cold  ground,  while  she  was 
warm  in  bed,  was  too  much  for  Letty's  childish  heart.  Had 
she  known  Tom  better,  she  would  not  have  been  afraid  :  she 


134  .      MARY  MARST6W. 

would  have  known  that  he  would  indeed  do  as  he  had  said — so 
far  ;  that  he  would  lie  down  under  her  window,  and  there  re- 
main, even  to  the  very  moment  when  he  began  to  feel  miser- 
able, and  a  moment  longer,  but  not  more  than  two  ;  that  then 
he  would  get  up,  and,  with  a  last  look,  start  home  for  bed. 

"  I  will  stop  a  little  while,  Tom,"  she  offered,  "  if  you  will 
promise  to  go  home  as  soon  as  I  leave  you." 

Tom  promised. 

They  went  wandering  along  the  farm-lanes,  and  Tom  made 
love  to  her,  as  the  phrase  is — in  his  case,  alas  !  a  phrase  only 
too  correct.  I  do  not  say,  or  wish  understood,  that  he  did  not 
love  her — with  such  love  as  lay  in  the  immediate  power  of  his 
development ;  but,  being  a  sort  of  a  poet,  such  as  a  man  may 
be  who  loves  the  form  of  beauty,  but  not  the  indwelling  power 
of  it,  that  is,  the  truth,  he  made  love  to  her — fashioned  forms 
of  love,  and  offered  them  to  her  ;  and  she  accepted  them,  and 
found  the  words  of  them  very  dear  and  very  lovely.  For 
neither  had  she  got  far  enough,  with  all  Godfrey's  endeavors 
for  her  development,  to  love  aright  the  ring  of  the  true  gold, 
and  therefore  was  not  able  to  distinguish  the  dull  sound  of  the 
gilt  brass  Tom  offered  her.  Poor  fellow  !  it  was  all  he  had. 
But  compassion  itself  can  hardly  urge  that  as  a  reason  for  ac- 
cepting it  for  genuine.  What  rubbish  most  girls  will  take  for 
poetry,  and  with  it  heap  up  impassably  their  door  to  the  gar- 
den of  delights  !  what  French  polish  they  will  take  for  refine- 
ment !  what  merest  French  gallantry  for  love  !  what  French 
sentiment  for  passion  !  what  commonest  passion  they  will  take 
for  devotion  ! — passion  that  has  little  to  do  with  their  beauty 
even,  still  less  with  the  individuality  of  it,  and  nothing  at  all 
with  their  loveliness  ! 

In  justice  to  Tom,  I  must  add,  however,  that  he  also  took 
not  a  little  rubbish  for  poetr}^,  much  sentiment  for  pathos,  and 
all  passion  for  love.  He  was  no  intentional  deceiver  ;  he  was 
so  self-deceived,  that,  being  himself  a  deception,  he  could  be 
nothing  but  a  deceiver — at  once  the  most  complete  and  the 
most  pardonable,  and  perhaps  the  most  dangerous  of  deceivers. 

With  all  his  fine  talk  of  love,  to  which  he  now  gave  full 
flow,  it  was  characteristic  of  him  that,  although  he  saw  Letty 


THE  MOONLIGHT.  135 

without  hat  or  cloak,  just  because  he  was  himself  warmly  clad, 
he  never  thought  of  her  being  cold,  until  the  arm  he  had  thrown 
round  her  waist  felt  her  shiver.  Thereupon  he  was  kind,  and 
would  have  insisted  that  she  should  go  in  and  get  a  shawl,  had 
she  not  positively  refused  to  go  in  and  come  out  again.  Then 
he  would  have  had  her  put  on  his  coat,  that  she  might  be  able 
to  stay  a  little  longer  ;  but  she  prevailed  on  him  to  let  her  go. 
He  brought  her  to  the  nearest  point  not  within  sight  of  any  of 
the  windows,  and,  there  leaving  her,  set  out  at  a  rapid  pace  for 
the  inn  where  he  had  put  up  his  mare. 

When  Tom  was  gone,  and  the  bare  night,  a  diffused  con- 
science, all  about  her,  Letty,  with  a  strange  fear  at  her  heart, 
like  one  in  a  churchyard,  with  the  ghost-hour  at  hand,  and 
feeling  like  "  a  guilty  thing  surprised,"  although  she  had  done 
nothing  wrong  in  its  mere  self,  stole  back  to  the  door  of  the 
kitchen,  longing  for  the  shelter  of  her  own  room,  as  never 
exile  for  his  fatherland. 

She  had  left  the  door  an  inch  ajar,  that  she  might  run  the 
less  risk  of  making  a  noise  in  opening  it ;  but  ere  she  reached 
it,  the  moon  shining  full  upon  it,  she  saw  plainly,  and  her  heart 
turned  sick  when  she  saw,  that  it  was  closed.  Between  cold 
and  terror  she  shuddered  from  head  to  foot,  and  stood  staring. 

Eecovering  a  little,  she  said  to  herself  some  draught  must 
have  blown  it  to.  If  so,  there  was  much  danger  that  the  noise 
had  been  heard ;  but,  in  any  case,  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  She 
glided  swiftly  to  it.  She  lifted  the  latch  softly — but,  horror  of 
horrors  !  in  vain.  The  door  was  locked.  She  was  shut  out. 
She  must  lie  or  confess  !  And  what  lie  would  serve  ?  Poor 
Letty  !  And  yet,  for  all  her  dismay,  her  terror,  her  despair 
that  night,  in  her  innocence,  she  never  once  thought  of  the 
worst  danger  in  which  she  stood  ! 

The  least  perilous,  where  no  safe  way  was  left,  would  now 
have  been  to  let  the  simple  truth  appear  ;  Letty  ought  imme- 
diately to  have  knocked  at  the  door,  and,  should  that  have 
proved  unavailing,  to  have  broken  her  aunt's  window  even,  to 
gain  hearing  and  admittance.  But  that  was  just  the  kind  of 
action  of  which,  truthful  as  was  her  nature,  poor  Letty,  both 
by  constitution  and  training,  was  incapable  ;  human  opposition, 


136  MARY  MARSTOK 

superior  anger,  condemnation,  she  dared  not  encounter.     She 
sank,  more  than  half  fainting,  upon  the  door-step. 

The  moment  she  came  to  herself,  apprehension  changed  into 
active  dread,  rushed  into  uncontrollable  terror.  She  sprang  to 
her  feet,  and,  the  worst  thing  she  could  do,  fled  like  the  wind 
after  Tom — now,  indeed,  she  imagined,  her  only  refuge  !  She 
knew  where  he  had  put  up  his  horse,  and  knew  he  could  hardly 
take  any  other  way  than  the  foot-path  to  Testbridge.  He 
could  not  be  more  than  a  few  yards  ahead  of  her,  she  thought. 
Presently  she  heard  him  whistling,  she  was  sure,  as  he  walked 
leisurely  along,  but  she  could  not  see  him.  The  way  was  mostly 
between  hedges  until  it  reached  the  common  :  there  she  would 
catch  sight  of  him,  for,  notwithstanding  the  gauzy  mist,  the 
moon  gave  plenty  of  light.  On  she  went  swiftly,  still  fancying  at 
intervals  she  heard  in  front  of  her  his  whistle,  and  even  his  step 
on  the  hard,  frozen  path.  In  her  eager  anxiety  to  overtake  him, 
she  felt  neither  the  chilling  air  nor  the  fear  of  the  night  and  the 
loneliness.  Dismay  was  behind  her,  and  hope  before  her.  On 
and  on  she  ran.  But  when,  with  now  failing  breath,  she  reached 
the  common,  and  saw  it  lie  so  bare  and  wide  in  the  moonlight, 
with  the  little  hut  standing  on  its  edge,  like  a  ghastly  lodge  to 
nowhere,  with  gaping  black  holes  for  door  and  window,  then, 
indeed,  the  horror  of  her  deserted  condition  and  the  terrors  of 
the  night  began  to  crush  their  way  into  her  soul.  What  might 
not  be  lurking  in  that  ruin,  ready  to  wake  at  the  lightest  rus- 
tle, and,  at  sight  of  a  fleeing  girl,  start  out  in  pursuit,  and  catch 
her  by  the  hair  that  now  streamed  behind  her  !  And  there  was 
the  hawthorn,  so  old  and  grotesquely  contorted,  always  bring- 
ing to  her  mind  a  frightful  German  print  at  the- head  of  a  poem 
called  "The  Haunted  Heath,"  in  one  of  her  cousin  Godfrey's 
books  !  It  was  like  an  old  miser,  decrepit  with  age,  pursued 
and  unable  to  run  !  Miserable  as  was  her  real  condition,  it 
was  rendered  yet  more  pitiable  by  these  terrors  of  the  imagi- 
nation. The  distant  howl  of  a  dog  which  the  moon  would  not 
let  sleep,  the  muffled  low  of  a  cow  from  a  shippen,  and  a  certain 
strange  sound,  coming  again  and  again,  which  she  could  not 
account  for,  all  turned  to  things  unnatural,  therefore  frightful. 
Faintly,  once  or  twice,  she  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  it  was 


THE  MORNING.  137 

only  a  horrible  dream,  from  which  she  would  wake  in  safety ; 
but  it  would  not  do  ;  it  was,  alas  !  all  too  real — hard,  killing 
fact !  Anyhow,  dream  or  fact,  there  was  no  turning  ;  on  to 
the  end  she  must  go.  More  frightful  than  all  possible  dangers, 
most  frightful  thing  of  all,  was  the  old  house  she  had  left, 
standing  silent  in  the  mist,  holding  her  room  inside  it  empty, 
the  candle  burning  away  in  the  face  of  the  moon  !  Across  the 
common  she  glided  like  a  swift  wraith,  and  again  into  the 
shadow  of  the  hedges. 

There  seems  to  be  a  hope  as  well  as  a  courage  born  of  de- 
spair :  immortal,  yet  inconstant  children  of  a  death-doomed 
sire,  both  were  now  departing.  If  Tom  had  come  this  way, 
she  must,  she  thought,  have  overtaken  him  long  before  now  ! 
But,  perhaps,  she  had  fainted  outright,  and  lain  longer  than  she 
knew  at  the  kitchen-door  ;  and  when  she  started  to  follow  him, 
Tom  was  already  at  home  !    Alas,  alas  !  she  was  lost  utterly  ! 

The  footpath  came  to  an  end,  and  she  was  on  the  high-road. 
There  was  the  inn  where  Tom  generally  put  up  !  It  was  silent 
as  the  grave.  The  clang  of  a  horseshoe  striking  a  stone  came 
through  the  frosty  air  from  far  along  the  road.  Her  heart 
sank  into  the  depths  of  the  infinite  sea  that  encircles  the  soul, 
and,  for  the  second  time  that  night,  Death  passing  by  gave  her 
an  alms  of  comfort,  and  she  lay  insensible  on  the  border  of  the 
same  highway  along  which  Tom,  on  his  bay  mare,  went  sing- 
ing home. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE     MOENIIG. 

At  Thornwick,  Tom  had  been  descried  in  the  yard,  by  the 
spying  organs  of  one  of  the  servants — a  woman  not  very  young, 
and  not  altogether  innocent  of  nightly  interviews.  Through 
the  small  window  of  her  closet  she  had  seen,  and  having  seen 
she  watched— not  without  hope  she  might  be  herself  the  object 
of  the  male  presence,  which  she  recognized  as  that  of  Tom 
Helmer,  whom  almost  everybody  knew.     In  a  few  minutes, 


138  MART  MAB8T0N. 

however,  Letty  appeared  behind  him,  and  therewith  a  throb  of 
evil  joy  shot  through  her  bosom  :  what  a  chance  !  what  a  good 
joke  !  what  a  thing  for  her  to  find  out  Miss  Letty ;  to  surprise 
her  naughty  secret !  to  have  her  in  her  power !  She  would 
have  no  choice  but  tell  her  everything — and  then  what  privileges 
would  be  hers  !  and  what  larks  they  two  would  have  together, 
helping  each  other  !  She  had  not  a  thought  of  betraying  her  : 
there  would  be  no  fun  in  that !  not  the  less  would  she  encour- 
age a  little  the  fear  that  she  might,  for  it  would  be  as  a  charm 
in  her  bosom  to  work  her  will  withal ! — To  make  sure  of  Letty 
and  her  secret,  partly  also  in  pure  delight  of  mischief,  and  en- 
joyment of  the  power  to  tease,  she  stole  down  stairs,  and  locked 
the  kitchen  door — the  bolt  of  which,  for  reasons  of  her  own, 
she  kept  well  oiled  ;  then  sat  down  in  an  old  rocking-chair,  and 
waited — I  can  not  say  watched,  for  she  fell  fast  asleep.  Letty 
lifted  the  latch  almost  too  softly  for  her  to  have  heard  had  she 
been  awake  ;  but  on  the  door-step  Letty,  had  she  been  capable 
of  listening,  might  have  heard  her  snoring. 

When  the  young  woman  awoke  in  the  cold  gray  of  the 
morning,  and  came  to  herself,  compunction  seized  her.  Open- 
ing the  door  softly,  she  went  out  and  searched  everywhere  ; 
then,  having  discovered  no  trace  of  Letty,  left  the  door  un- 
locked, and  went  to  bed,  hoping  she  might  yet  find  her  way 
into  the  house  before  Mrs.  Wardour  was  down. 

When  that  lady  awoke  at  the  usual  hour,  and  heard  no 
sound  of  stir,  she  put  on  her  dressing-gown,  and  went,  in  the 
anger  of  a  housekeeper,  to  Letty 's  room  :  there,  to  her  amaze- 
ment and  horror,  she  saw  the  bed  had  lain  all  the  night  expect- 
ant. She  hurried  thence  to  the  room  occupied  by  the  girl  who 
was  the  cause  of  the  mischief.  Eoused  suddenly  by  the  voice 
of  her  mistress,  she  got  up  half  awake,  and  sleepy-headed ; 
and,  assailed  by  a  torrent  of  questions,  answered  so,  in  her  con- 
fusion, as  to  give  the  initiative  to  others  :  before  she  was  well 
awake,  she  had  told  all  she  had  seen  from  the  window,  but 
nothing  of  what  she  had  herself  done.  Mrs.  Wardour  hurried 
to  the  kitchen,  found  the  door  on  the  latch,  believed  every- 
thing and  much  more,  went  straight  to  her  son's  room,  and,  in 
a  calm  rage,  woke  him  up,  and  poured  into  his  unwilling  ears 


THE  MORNING.  139 

a  torrent  of  mingled  fact  and  fiction,  wherein  floated  side  by 
side  with  Letty's  name  every  had  adjective  she  could  bring  the 
lips  of  propriety  to  utter.  Before  he  quite  came  to  himself  the 
news  had  wellnigh  driven  him  mad.  There  stood  his  mother, 
dashing  her  cold  hailstorm  of  contemptuous  wrath  on  the  girl 
he  loved,  whom  he  had  gone  to  bed  believing  the  sweetest  crea- 
ture in  creation,  and  loving  himself  more  than  she  dared  show  ! 
He  had  been  dreaming  of  her  with  the  utmost  tenderness,  when 
his  mother  woke  him  with  the  news  that  she  had  gone  in  the 
night  with  Tom  Helmer,  the  poorest  creature  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

'•'For  God's  sake,  mother,"  he  cried,  "go  away,  and  let  me 
get  up  ! " 

"What  can  you  do,  Godfrey  ?  What  is  there  to  be  done  ? 
Let  the  jade  go  to  her  ruin  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Wardour,  alarmed  in 
the  midst  of  her  wrath.  "You  can  do  nothing  now.  As  she 
has  made  her  bed,  so  she  must  lie. " 

Her  words  were  torture  to  him.  He  sprang  from  his  bed, 
and  proceeded  to  pull  on  his  clothes.  Terrified  at  the  wildness 
of  his  looks,  his  mother  fled  from  the  room,  but  only  to  watch 
at  the  door. 

Scarcely  could  Godfrey  dress  himself  for  agitation ;  brain 
and  heart  seemed  to  mingle  in  chaotic  confusion.  Anger  strove 
with  unbelief,  and  indignation  at  his  mother  with  the  sense  of 
bitter  wrong  from  Letty.  It  was  all  incredible  and  shameful, 
yet  not  the  less  utterly  miserable.  The  girl  whose  Idea  lay  in 
the  innermost  chamber  of  his  heart  like  the  sleeping  beauty  in 
her  palace  !  while  he  loved  and  ministered  to  her  outward 
dream-shape  which  flitted  before  the  eyes  of  his  sense,  in  the 
hope  that  at  last  the  Idea  would  awake,  and  come  forth  and 
inform  it !— he  dared  not  follow  the  thought !  it  was  madness 
and  suicide  !  He  had  been  silently  worshiping  an  angel  with 
wings  not  yet  matured  to  the  spreading  of  themselves  to  the 
winds  of  truth  ;  those  wings  were  a  little  maimed,  and  he  had 
been  tending  them  with  precious  balms,  and  odors,  and  oint- 
ments :  all  at  once  she  had  turned  into  a  bat,  a  skin-winged 
creature  that  flies  by  night,  and  had  disappeared  in  the  dark- 
ness !    Of  all  possible  mockeries,  for  her  to  steal  out  at  night 


140  MARY  MARSTOK 

to  the  embraces  of  a  fool  !  a  wretched,  weak-headed,  idle  fel- 
low, whom  every  clown  called  by  his  Christian  name  !  an  ass 
that  did  nothing  but  ride  the  country  on  a  horse  too  good  for 
him,  and  quarrel  with  his  mother  from  Sunday  to  Saturday  ! 
For  such  a  man  she  had  left  him,  Godfrey  Wardour !  a  man 
who  would  have  lifted  her  to  the  height  of  her  nature  !  whereas 
the  fool  Helmer  would  sink  her  to  the  depth  of  his  own  merest 
nothingness  !  The  thing  was  inconceivable  !  yet  it  was  !  He 
knew  it ;  they  were  all  the  same  !  Never  woman  worthy  of 
true  man  !  The  poorest  show  would  take  them  captive,  would 
draw,  them  from  reason  ! 

He  knew  now  that  he  loved  the  girl.  Gnashing  his  teeth 
with  fellest  rage,  he  caught  from  the  wall  his  heaviest  hunting- 
whip,  rushed  heedless  past  his  mother  where  she  waited  on  the 
landing,  and  out  of  the  house. 

In  common  with  many,  he  thought  worse  of  Tom  Helmer 
than  he  yet  deserved.  He  was  a  characterless  fool,  a  trifler,  a 
poetic  babbler,  a  good-for-nothing  good  sort  of  fellow ;  that 
was  the  worst  that  as  yet  was  true  of  him ;  and  better  things 
might  with  equal  truth  have  been  said  of  him,  had  there  been 
any  one  that  loved  him  enough  to  know  them. 

Godfrey  ran  to  the  stable,  and  to  the  stall  of  his  fastest 
horse.  As  he  threw  the  saddle  over  his  back,  he  almost  wept 
in  the  midst  of  his  passion  at  the  sight  of  the  bright  stirrups. 
His  hands  trembled  so  that  he  failed  repeatedly  in  passing  the 
straps  through  the  buckles  of  the  girths.  But  the  moment  he 
felt  the  horse  under  him,  he  was  stronger,  set  his  head  straight 
for  the  village  of  Warrender,  where  Tom's  mother  lived,  and 
went  away  over  everything.  His  crow-flight  led  him  across 
the  back  of  the  house  of  Durnmelling.  Hesper,  who  had  not 
slept  well,  and  found  the  early  morning  even  a  worse  time  to 
live  in  than  the  evening,  saw  him  from  her  window,  going 
straight  as  an  arrow.  The  sight  arrested  her.  She  called 
Sepia,  who  for  a  few  nights  had  slept  in  her  room,  to  the 
window. 

"There,  now.!"  she  said,  "there  is  a  man  who  looks  a 
man  !  Good  Heavens  !  how  recklessly  he  rides  !  I  don't  be- 
lieve Mr.  Eedmain  could  keep  on  a  horse's  back  if  he  tried  ! " 

■ 


THE  MORNING.  141 

Sepia  looked,  half  asleep.  Her  eyes  grew  wider.  Her 
sleepiness  vanished. 

"Something  is  wrong  with  the  proud  yeoman  !"  she  said. 
"He  is  either  mad  or  in  love,  probably  both  !  We  shall  hear 
more  of  this  morning's  ride,  Hesper,  as  I  hope  to  die  a  maid  ! 
— That's  a  man  I  should  like  to  know  now,"  she  added,  care- 
lessly. "  There  is  some  go  in  him  !  I  have  a  weakness  for  the 
kind  of  man  that  could  shake  the  life  out  of  me  if  I  offended 
him." 

"Are  you  so  anxious,  then,  to  make  a  good,  submissive 
wife  ?"  said  Hesper. 

"I  should  take  the  very  first  opportunity  of  offending  him 
— mortally,  as  they  call  it.  It  would  be  worth  one's  while 
with  a  man  like  that." 

"  Why  ?    How  ?    For  what  good  ?  " 

"Just  to  see  him  look.  There  is  nothing  on  earth  so 
scrumptious  as  having  a  grand  burst  of  passion  all  to  your- 
self." She  drew  in  her  breath  like  one  in  pain.  "My  God!" 
she  said,  "to  see  it  come  and  go  !  the  white  and  the  red  !  the 
tugging  at  the  hair  !  the  tears  and  the  oaths,  and  the  cries  and 
the  curses  !  To  know  that  you  have  the  man's  heart-strings 
stretched  on  your  violin,  and  that  with  one  dash  of  your  bow, 
one  tiniest  twist  of  a  peg,  you  can  make  him  shriek  ! " 

"  Sepia ! "  said  Hesper,  "  I  think  Darwin  must  be  right, 
and  some  of  us  at  least  are  come  from — " 

"Tiger-cats  ?  or  perhaps  the  Tasmanian  devil  ?"  suggested 
Sepia,  with  one  of  her  scornful  half -laughs. 

But  the  same  instant  she  turned  white  as  death,  and  sat 
softly  down  on  the  nearest  chair. 

"Good  Heavens,  Sepia!  what  is  the  matter?  I  did  not 
mean  it,"  said  Hesper,  remorsefully,  thinking  she  had  wounded 
her,  and  that  she  had  broken  down  in  the  attempt  to  conceal 
the  pain. 

"It's  not  that,  Hesper,  dear.  Nothing  you  could  say 
would  hurt  me,"  replied  Sepia,  drawing  breath  sharply.  "  It's 
a  pain  that  comes  sometimes — a  sort  of  picture  drawn  in  pains 
— something  I  saw  once." 

"  A  picture  ?  " 


142  MARY  MARSTOK 

"  Oh  !  well ! — picture,  or  what  you  will ! — Where's  the  dif- 
ference, once  it's  gone  and  done  with  ?  Yet  it  will  get  the 
better  of  me  now  and  then  for  a  moment !  Some  day,  when 
you  are  married,  and  a  little  more  used  to  men  and  their  ways, 
I  will  tell  you.     My  little  cousin  is  much  too  innocent  now." 

"But  you  have  not  been  married,  Sepia!  What  should 
you  know  about  disgraceful  things  ?" 

"I  will  tell  you  when  you  are  married,  and  not  until  then, 
Hesper.  There's  a  bribe  to  make  you  a  good  child,  and  do  as 
you  must — that  is,  as  your  father  and  mother  and  Mr.  Eed- 
main  would  have  you ! " 

While  they  talked,  Godfrey,  now  seen,  now  vanishing,  had 
become  a  speck  in  the  distance.  Crossing  a  wide  field,  he  was 
now  no  longer  to  be  distinguished  from  the  grazing  cattle,  and 
so  was  lost  to  the  eyes  of  the  ladies. 

By  this  time  he  had  collected  his  thoughts  a  little,  and  it 
had  grown  plain  to  him  that  the  last  and  only  thing  left  for 
him  to  do  for  Letty  was  to  compel  Tom  to  marry  her  at  once. 
"  My  mother  will  then  have  half  her  own  way!"  he  said  to 
himself  bitterly.  But,  instead  of  reproaching  himself  that  he 
had  not  drawn  the  poor  girl's  heart  to  his  own,  and  saved  her 
by  letting  her  know  that  he  loved  her,  he  tried  to  congratulate 
himself  on  the  pride  and  self-important  delay  which  had  pre- 
served him  from  yielding  his  love  to  one  who  counted  herself 
of  so  little  value.  He  did  not  reflect  that,  if  the  value  a  wo- 
man places  upon  herself  be  the  true  estimate  of  her  worth,  the 
world  is  tolerably  provided  with  utterly  inestimable  treasures 
of  womankind  ;  yet  is  it  the  meek  who  shall  inherit  it ;  and 
they  who  make  least  of  themselves  are  those  who  shall  be  led 
up  to  the  dais  at  last. 

"But  the  wretch  shall  marry  her  at  once!"  he  swore. 
"Her  character  is  nothing  now  but  a  withered  flower  in  the 
hands  of  that  woman.  Even  were  she  capable  of  holding  her 
tongue,  by  this  time  a  score  must  have  seen  them  together." 

Godfrey  hardly  knew  what  he  was  to  gain  by  riding  to 
Warrender,  for  how  could  he  expect  to  find  Tom  there  ?  and 
what  could  any  one  do  with  the  mother  ?  Only,  where  else 
could  he  go  first  to  learn  anything  about  him  ?    Some  hint  he 


THE  MORNING.  143 

might  there  get,  suggesting  in  what  direction  to  seek  them. 
And  he  must  be  doing  something,  however  useless  :  inaction 
at  such  a  moment  would  be  hell  itself  ! 

Arrived  at  the  house — a  well-appointed  cottage,  with  out- 
houses larger  than  itself — he  gave  his  horse  to  a  boy  to  lead  up 
and  down,  while  he  went  through  the  gate  and  rang  the  bell 
in  a  porch  covered  with  ivy.  The  old  woman  who  opened  the 
door  said  Master  Tom  was  not  up  yet,  but  she  would  take  his 
message.  Returning  presently,  she  asked  him  to  walk  in. 
He  declined  the  hospitality,  and  remained  in  front  of  the 
house. 

Tom  was  no  coward,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word  : 
there  was  in  him  a  good  deal  of  what  goes  to  the  making  of  a 
gentleman  ;  but  he  confessed  to  being  "  in  a  bit  of  a  funk " 
when  he  heard  who  was  below  :  there  was  but  one  thing  it 
could  mean,  he  thought — that  Letty  had  been  found  out,  and 
here  was  her  cousin  come  to  make  a  row.  But  what  did  it 
matter,  so  long  as  Letty  was  true  to  him  ?  The  world  should 
know  that  Wardour nor  Piatt — his  mothers  maiden  name  ! — 
nor  any  power  on  earth  should  keep  from  him  the  woman  of 
his  choice  !  As  soon  as  he  was  of  age,  he  would  marry  her,  in 
spite  of  them  all.  But  he  could  not  help  being  a  little  afraid 
of  Godfrey  Wardour,  for  he  admired  him. 

For  Godfrey,  he  would  have  rather  liked  Tom  Helmer,  had 
he  ever  seen  down  into  the  best  of  him  ;  but  Tom's  carelessness 
had  so  often  misrepresented  him,  that  Godfrey  had  too  huge  a 
contempt  for  him.  And  now  the  miserable  creature  had  not 
merely  grown  dangerous,  but  had  of  a  sudden  done  him  the 
greatest  possible  hurt !  It  was  all  Godfrey  could  do  to  keep 
his  contempt  and  hate  within  what  he  would  have  called  the 
bounds  of  reason,  as  he  waited  for  "the  miserable  mongrel." 
He  kept  walking  up  and  down  the  little  lawn,  which  a  high 
shrubbery  protected  from  the  road,  making  a  futile  attempt, 
as  often  as  he  thought  of  the  policy  of  it,  to  look  unconcerned, 
and  the  next  moment  striking  fierce,  objectless  blows  with  his 
whip.  Catching  sight  of  him  from  a  window  on  the  stair,  Tom 
was  so  little  reassured  by  his  demeanor,  that,  crossing  the  hall, 
he  chose  from  the  stand  a  thick  oak  stick — poor  odds  against 


144  MART  HARSTON. 

a  hunting-whip  in  the  hands  of  one  like  Godfrey,  with  the 
steel  of  ten  years  of  manhood  in  him. 

Tom's  long  legs  came  doubling  carelessly  down  the  two 
steps  from  the  door,  as,  with  a  gracious  wave  of  the  hand,  and 
swinging  his  cudgel  as  if  he  were  just  going  out  for  a  stroll,  he 
coolly  greeted  his  visitor.  But  the  other,  instead  of  returning 
the  salutation,  stepped  quickly  up  to  him. 

"Mr.  Helmer,  where  is  Miss  Lovel  ?"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice. 

Tom  turned  pale,  for  a  pang  of  undefined  fear  shot  through 
him,  and  his  voice  betrayed  genuine  anxiety  as  he  answered  : 

"  I  do  not  know.     What  has  happened  ?  " 

Wardour's  fingers  gripped  convulsively  his  whip-handle, 
and  the  word  liar  had  almost  escaped  his  lips ;  but,  through 
the  darkness  of  the  tempest  raging  in  him,  he  yet  read  truth 
in  Tom's  scared  face  and  trembling  words. 

"You  were  with  her  last  night,"  he  said,  grinding  it  out 
between  his  teeth. 

"I  was,"  answered  Tom,  looking  more  scared  still. 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?"  demanded  Godfrey  again. 

"I  hope  to  God  you  know,"  answered  Tom,  "for  I  don't." 

"Where  did  you  leave  her  ?"  asked  Wardour,  in  the  tone 
of  an  avenger  rather  than  a  judge. 

Tom,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  described  the  place 
with  precision — a  spot  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards  from  the 
house. 

"What  right  had  you  to  come  sneaking  about  the  place  ?" 
hissed  Godfrey,  a  vain  attempt  to  master  an  involuntary  move- 
ment of  the  muscles  of  his  face  at  once  clinching  and  showing 
his  teeth.  At  the  same  moment  he  raised  his  whip  uncon- 
sciously. 

Tom  instinctively  stepped  back,  and  raised  his  stick  in  at- 
titude of  defense.     Godfrey  burst  into  a  scornful  laugh. 

"You  fool !"  he  said  ;  " you  need  not  be  afraid  ;  I  can  see 
you  are  speaking  the  truth.     You  dare  not  tell  me  a  lie  ! " 

"It  is  enough,"  returned  Tom  with  dignity,  "that  I  do 
not  tell  lies.  I  am  not  afraid  of  you,  Mr.  Wardour.  What  I 
dare  or  dare  not  do,  is  neither  for  you  nor  me  to  say.     You 


THE  MORNING.  145 

are  the  older  and  stronger  and  every  way  better  man,  but  that 
gives  you  no  right  to  bully  me." 

This  answer  brought  Godfrey  to  a  better  sense  of  what 
became  himself,  if  not  of  what  Helmer  could  claim  of  him. 
Using  positive  violence  over  himself,  he  spoke  next  in  a  tone 
calm  even  to  iciness. 

"Mr.  Helmer,"  he  said,  "I  will  gladly  address  you  as  a 
gentleman,  if  you  will  show  me  how  it  can  be  the  part  of  a 
gentleman  to  go  prowling  about  his  neighbor's  property  after 
nightfall." 

"Love  acknowledges  no  law  but  itself,  Mr.  Wardour," 
answered  Tom,  inspired  by  the  dignity  of  his  honest  affection 
for  Letty.  "  Miss  Lovel  is  not  your  property.  I  love  her,  and 
she  loves  me.  I  would  do  my  best  to  see  her,  if  Thornwick 
were  the  castle  of  Giant  Blunderbore." 

"  Why  not  walk  up  to  the  house,  like  a  man,  in  the  day- 
light, and  say  you  wanted  to  see  her  ?  " 

"Should  I  have  been  welcome,  Mr.  Wardour  ?"  said  Tom, 
significantly.  "  You  know  very  well  what  my  reception  would 
have  been ;  and  I  know  better  than  throw  difficulties  in  my 
own  path.  To  do  as  you  say  would  have  been  to  make  it  next 
to  impossible  to  see  her." 

"Well,  we  must  find  her  now  anyhow ;  and  you  must  marry 
her  off-hand." 

"Must!"  echoed  Tom,  his  eyes  flashing,  at  once  with 
anger  at  the  word  and  with  pleasure  at  the  proposal.  "  Must  ?  " 
he  repeated,  "when  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  desire  or 
care  for  but  to  marry  her  ?  Tell  me  what  it  all  means,  Mr. 
Wardour  ;  for,  by  Heaven  !    I  am  utterly  in  the  dark. " 

"It  means  just  this — and  I  don't  know  but  I  am  making  a 
fool  of  myself  to  tell  you — that  the  girl  was  seen  in  your  com- 
pany late  last  night,  and  has  been  neither  seen  nor  heard  of 
since." 

"  My  God  ! "  cried  Tom,  now  first  laying  hold  of  the  fact ; 
and  with  the  word  he  turned  and  started  for  the  stable.  His 
run,  however,  broke  down,  and  with  a  look  of  scared  bewilder- 
ment he  came  back  to  Godfrey. 

" Mr.  Wardour,"  he  said,  "what  anrl  to  do  ?   Please  advise 
1 


146  MART  MARSTON. 

me.     If  we  raise  a  hue  and  cry,  it  will  set  people  saying  all 
manner  of  things,  pleasant  neither  for  you  nor  for  us." 

"  That  is  your  business,  Mr.  Helmer,"  answered  Godfrey, 
bitterly.  "It  is  you  who  haye  brought  this  .shame  on 
her." 

"You  are  a  cold-hearted  man,"  said  Tom.  "But  there  is 
no  shame  in  the  matter.  I  will  soon  make  that  clear — if  only 
I  knew  where  to  go  after  her.  The  thing  is  to  me  utterly 
mysterious  :  there  are  neither  robbers  nor  wild  beasts  about 
Thorn  wick.     What  can  haye  happened  to  her  ?  " 

He  turned  his  back  on  Godfrey  for  a  moment,  then,  sud- 
denly wheeling,  broke  out : 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is  ;  I  see  it  all  now  ;  she  found  out 
that  she  had  been  seen,  and  was  too  terrified  to  go  into  the 
house  again  ! — Mr.  "Wardour,"  he  continued,  with  a  new  look 
in  his  eyes,  "I  haye  more  reason  to  be  suspicious  of  you  and 
your  mother  than  you  haye  to  suspect  me.  Your  treatment 
of  Letty  has  not  been  of  the  kindest." 

So  Letty  had  been  accusing  him  of  unkindness  !  Keady  as 
he  now  was  to  hear  anything  to  her  disadvantage,  it  was  yet  a 
fresh  stab  to  the  heart  of  him.  Was  this  the  girl  for  whom,  in 
all  honesty  and  affection,  he  had  sought  to  do  so  much  !  How 
could  she  say  he  was  unkind  to  her  ? — and  say  it  to  a  fellow 
like  this  ?  It  was  humiliating,  indeed  !  But  he  would  not  de- 
fend himself.  Not  to  Tom,  not  to  his  mother,  not  to  any 
Hying  soul,  would  he  utter  a  word  even  resembling  blame 
of  the  girl !  He,  at  least,  would  carry  himself  generously ! 
Everything,  though  she  had  plunged  his  heart  in  a  pitcher  of 
gall,  should  be  done  for  her  sake  !  She  should  go  to  her  lover, 
and  leave  blame  behind  her  with  him  !  His  sole  care  should  be 
that  the  wind-bag  should  not  collapse  and  slip  out  of  it,  that 
he  should  actually  marry  her  ;  and,  as  soon  as  he  had  handed 
him  over  to  her  in  safety,  he  would  have  done  with  her  and 
with  all  women  for  ever,  except  his  mother  !  Not  once  more 
would  he  speak  to  one  of  them  in  tone  of  friendship  ! 

He  looked  at  Tom  full  in  the  eyes,  and  made  him  no 
answer. 

"If  I  don't  find  Letty  this  very  morning,"  said  Tom,  "I 


TEE  RESULT.  147 

shall  apply  for  a  warrant  to  search  your  house  :  my  uncle  Ken- 
dall will  give  me  one." 

Godfrey  smiled  a  smile  of  scorn,  turned  from  him  as  a  wise 
man  turns  from  a  fool,  and  went  out  of  the  gate. 

He  had  just  taken  his  horse  from  the  boy  and  sent  him  off, 
when  he  saw  a  young  woman  coming  hurriedly  across  the  road, 
from  the  direction  of  Testbridge.  Plainly  she  was  on  business 
of  pressing  import.  She  came  nearer,  and  he  saw  it  was  Mary 
Marston.  The  moment  she  recognized  Godfrey,  she  began  to 
run  to  him ;  but,  when  she  came  near  enough  to  take  notice  of 
his  mien,  as  he  stood  with  his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  with  no  word 
of  greeting  or  look  of  reception,  and  inquiry  only  in  every 
feature,  her  haste  suddenly  dropped,  her  flushed  face  turned 
pale,  and  she  stood  still,  panting.  Not  a  word  could  she  utter, 
and  was  but  just  able  to  force  a  faint  smile,  with  intent  to  re- 
assure him. 


CHAPTEK  XVII. 

THE    RESULT. 

Letty  would  never  perhaps  have  come  to  herself  in  the 
cold  of  this  world,  under  the  shifting  tent  of  the  winter  night, 
but  for  an  outcast  mongrel  dog,  which,  wandering  masterless 
and  hungry,  but  not  selfish,  along  the  road,  came  upon  her 
where  she  lay  seemingly  lifeless,  and,  recognizing  with  pity  his 
neighbor  in  misfortune,  began  at  once  to  give  her — it  was  all 
he  had  that  was  separable — what  help  and  healing  might  lie  in 
a  warm,  honest  tongue.  Diligently  he  set  himself  to  lick  her 
face  and  hands. 

By  slow  degrees  her  misery  returned,  and  she  sat  up.  Ee- 
joiced  at  his  success,  the  dog  kept  dodging  about  her,  catching 
a  lick  here  and  a  lick  there,  wherever  he  saw  a  spot  of  bare  within 
his  reach.  By  slow  degrees,  next,  the  knowledge  of  herself 
joined  on  to  the  knowledge  of  her  misery,  and  she  knew  who 
it  was  that  was  miserable.  She  threw  her  arms  round  the 
dog,  laid  her  head  on  his,  and  wept.     This  relieved  her  a  little  : 


148  MART  MARSTON. 

weeping  is  good,  even  to  such  as  Alberigo  in  au  ice-pot  of  hell. 
But  she  was  cold  to  the  very  marrow,  almost  too  cold  to  feel 
it ;  and,  when  she  rose,  could  scarcely  put  one  foot  before  the 
other. 

Not  once,  for  all  her  misery,  did  she  imagine  a  return  to 
Thorn  wick.  Without  a  thought  of  whither,  she  moved  on, 
unaware  even  that  it  was  in  the  direction  of  the  town.  The 
dog,  delighted  to  believe  that  he  had  raised  up  to  himself  a 
mistress,  followed  humbly  at  her  heel :  but  always  when  she 
stopped,  as  she  did  every  few  paces,  ran  round  in  front  of  her, 
and  looked  up  in  her  face,  as  much  as  to  say,  ' '  Here  I  am, 
mistress !  shall  I  lick  again  ? "  If  a  dog  could  create,  he 
would  make  masters  and  mistresses.  G-ladly  would  she  then 
have  fondled  him,  but  feared  the  venture  ;  for,  it  seemed,  were 
she  to.  stoop,  she  must  fall  flat  on  the  road,  and  never  rise 
more. 

Slowly  the  two  went  on,  with  motion  scarce  enough  to 
keep  the  blood  moving  in  their  veins.  Had  she  not  been,  for 
all  her  late  depression,  in  fine  health  and  strength,  Letty  could 
hardly  have  escaped  death  from  the  cold  of  that  night.  For 
many  months  after,  some  portion  of  every  night  she  passed  in 
dreaming  over  again  this  dreariest  wandering  ;  and  in  her  after 
life  people  would  be  puzzled  to  think  why  Mrs.  Helmer  looked 
so  angry  when  any  one  spoke  as  if  the  animals  died  outright. 

But,  although  she  never  forgot  this  part  of  the  terrible 
night,  she  never  dreamed  of  any  rescue  from  it ;  memory  could 
not  join  it  on  to  the  next  part,  for  again  she  lost  consciousness, 
and  could  recall  nothing  between  feeling  the  dog  once  more 
licking  her  face  and  finding  herself  in  bed. 

When  Beenie  opened  her  kitchen-door  in  the  morning  to 
let  in  the  fresh  air,  she  found  seated  on  the  step,  and  leaning 
against  the  wall,  what  she  took  first  for  a  young  woman  asleep, 
and  then  for  the  dead  body  of  one  ;  for,  when  she  gave  her  a 
little  shake,  she  fell  sideways  off  the  door-step.  Beenie's  heart 
smote  her ;  for  during  the  last  hours  of  her  morning's  sleep 
she  had  been  disturbed  by  the  howling  of  a  dog,  apparently 
in  their  own  yard,  but  had  paid  no  further  attention  to  it  than 
that  of  repeated  mental  objurgation  :  there  stood  the  offender. 


THE  RESULT.  149 

looking  up  at  her  pitifully — ugly,  disreputable,  of  breed  un- 
known, one  of  the  canaille  I  When  the  girl  fell  down,  he 
darted  at  her,  licked  her  cold  face  for  a  moment,  then  stretch- 
ing out  a  long,  gaunt  neck,  uttered  from  the  depth  of  his  hide- 
bound frame  the  most  melancholy  appeal,  not  to  Beenie,  at 
whom  he  would  not  even  look  again,  but  to  the  open  door. 
But,  when  Beenie,  in  whom,  as  in  most  of  us,  curiosity  had 
the  start  of  service,  stooped,  and,  peering  more  closely  into 
the  face  of  the  girl,  recognized,  though  uncertainly,  a  known 
face,  she  too  uttered  a  kind  of  howl,  and  straightway  raising 
Letty's  head  drew  her  into  the  house.  It  is  the  mark  of  an 
imperfect  humanity,  that  personal  knowledge  should  spur  the 
sides  of  hospitable  intent  :  what  difference  does  our  knowing 
or  not  knowing  make  to  the  fact  of  human  need  ?  The  good 
Samaritan  would  never  have  been  mentioned  by  the  month  of 
the  True,  had  he  been  even  an  old  acquaintance  of  the  "cer- 
tain man."  But  it  is  thus  we  learn ;  and,  from  loving  this 
one  and  that,  we  come  to  love  all  at  last,  and  then  is  our 
humanity  complete. 

Letty  moved  not  one  frozen  muscle,  and  Beenie,  growing 
terrified,  flew  up  the  stair  to  her  mistress.  Mary  sprang  from 
her  bed  and  hurried  down.  There,  on  the  kitchen-floor,  in  front 
of  the  yet  tireless  grate,  lay  the  body  of  Letty  Lovel.  A  hide- 
ous dog  was  sitting  on  his  haunches  at  her  head.  The  moment 
she  entered,  again  the  animal  stretched  out  a  long,  bony  neck, 
and  sent  forth  a  howl  that  rang  penetrative  through  the  house. 
It  sounded  in  Mary's  ears  like  the  cry  of  the  whole  animal  cre- 
ation over  the  absence  of  their  Maker.  They  raised  her  and 
carried  her  to  Mary's  room.  There  they  laid  her  in  the  still 
warm  bed,  and  proceeded  to  use  all  possible  means  for  the  res- 
toration of  heat  and  the  renewal  of  circulation. 

Here  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  mention  that  Beenie,  return- 
ing, unsuccessful,  from  their  first  efforts,  to  the  kitchen,  to 
get  hot  water,  and  finding  the  dog  sitting  there  motionless, 
with  his  face  turned  toward  the  door  by  which  they  had  car- 
ried Letty  out,  peevish  with  disappointment  and  dread,  drove 
him  from  the  kitchen,  and  from  the  court,  into  the  street, 
where  that  same  day  he  was  seen  wildly  running  with  a  pan  at 


150  MART  MARSTOK. 

his  tail,  and  the  next  was  found  lying  dead  in  a  bit  of  waste 
ground  among  stones  and  shards.     God  rest  all  such  ! 

But,  as  far  as  Letty  was  concerned,  happily  Beenie  was  not 
an  old  woman  for  nothing.  With  a  woman's  sympathy,  Mary 
hesitated  to  run  for  the  doctor  :  who  could  tell  what  might  he 
involved  in  so  strange  an  event  ?  If  they  could  but  bring  her 
to,  first,  and  learn  something  to  guide  them !  She  pushed 
delay  to  the  very  verge  of  danger.  But,  soon  after,  thanks  to 
Beenie's  persistence,  indications  of  success  appeared,  and  Letty 
began  to  breathe.  It  was  then  resolved  between  the  nurses 
that,  for  the  present,  they  would  keep  the  affair  to  themselves, 
a  conclusion  affording  much  satisfaction  to  Beenie,  in  the  con- 
sciousness that  therein  she  had  the  better  of  the  Turnbulls, 
against  whom  she  cherished  an  ever-renewed  indignation. 

But,  when  Mary  set  herself  at  length  to  find  out  from  Letty 
what  had  happened,  without  which  she  could  not  tell  what  to 
do  next,  she  found  her  mind  so  far  gone  that  she  understood 
nothing  said  to  her,  or,  at  least,  could  return  no  rational  re- 
sponse, although  occasionally  an  individual  word  would  seem 
to  influence  the  current  of  her  ideas.  She  kept  murmuring 
almost  inarticulately ;  but,  to  Mary's  uneasiness,  every  now 
and  then  plainly  uttered  the  name  Tom.  What  was  she  to 
make  of  it  ?  In  terror  lest  she  should  betray  her,  she  must 
yet  do  something.  Matters  could  not  have  gone  wrong  so  far 
that  nothing  could  be  done  to  set  them  at  least  a  little  straight ! 
If  only  she  knew  what !  A  single  false  step  might  do  no  end 
of  mischief  !  She  must  see  Tom  Helmer  :  without  betraying 
Letty,  she  might  get  from  him  some  enlightenment.  She 
knew  his  open  nature,  had  a  better  opinion  of  him  than  many 
had,  and  was  a  little  nearer  the  right  of  him.  The  doctor 
must  be  called  ;  but  she  would,  if  possible,  see  Tom  first. 

It  was  not  more  than  half  an  hour's  walk  to  Warrender,  and 
she  set  out  in  haste.  She  must  get  back  before  George  Turn- 
bull  came  to  open  the  shop. 

When  she  got  near  enough  to  see  Mr.  Wardour's  face,  she 
read  in  it  at  once  that  he  was  there  from  the  same  cause  as  her- 
self ;  but  there  was  no  good  omen  to  be  drawn  from  its  expres- 
sion :  she  read  there  not  only  keen  anxiety  and  bitter  disap- 


THE  RESULT.  151 

pointment,  but  lowering  anger  ;  nor  was  that  absent  which,  she 
felt  to  be  distrust  of  herself.  The  sole  acknowledgment  he 
made  of  her  approach  was  to  withdraw  his  foot  from  the  stir- 
rup and  stand  waiting. 

"You  know  something,"  he  said,  looking  cold  and  hard  in 
her  face. 

"About  what?"  returned  Mary,  recovering  herself;  she 
was  careful,  for  Letty's  sake,  to  feel  her  way. 

"I  hope  to  goodness,"  returned  Godfrey,  almost  fiercely, 
yet  with  a  dash  of  rude  indifference,  "  you  are  not  concerned  in 
this — business  ! " — he  was  about  to  use  a  bad  adjective,  but  sup- 
pressed it. 

"I  am  concerned  in  it,"  said  Mary,  with  perfect  quietness. 

"  You  knew  what  was  going  on  ?  "  cried  Wardour.  "  You 
knew  that  fellow  there  came  prowling  about  Thornwick  like  a 
fox  about  a  hen-roost  ?  By  Heaven  !  if  I  had  but  suspected 
it—" 

"No,  Mr.  Wardour,"  interrupted  Mary,  already  catching  a 
glimpse  of  light,  "I  knew  nothing  of  that." 

"  Then  what  do  you  mean  by  saying  you  are  concerned  in 
the  matter  ?  " 

Mary  thought  he  was  behaving  so  unlike  himself  that  a 
shock  might  be  of  service* 

"  Only  this,"  she  answered,  " — that  Letty  is  now  lying  in 
my  room,  whether  dead  or  alive  I  am  in  doubt.  She  must  have 
spent  the  night  in  the  open  air — and  that  without  cloak  or 
bonnet." 

"  Good  God  !"  cried  Godfrey.  "And  you  could  leave  her 
like  that ! " 

"  She  is  attended  to,"  replied  Mary,  with  dignity.  "  There 
are  worse  evils  to  be  warded  than  death,  else  I  should  not  be 
here  ;  there  are  hard  judgments  and  evil  tongues. — Will  you 
come  and  see  her,  Mr.  Wardour  ?  " 

"No,"  answered  Godfrey,  gruffly. 

"  Shall  I  send  a  note  to  Mrs.  Wardour,  then  ?  " 

"I  will  tell  her  myself." 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  about  her  ?  " 

"1  have  no  concern  in  the  matter,  but  I  suppose  you  had 


152  MART  MAE8T0N. 

better  send  for  a  doctor.  Talk  to  that  fellow  there/'  he  added, 
pointing  with  his  whip  toward  the  cottage,  and  again  putting 
his  foot  in  the  stirrup.  "  Tell  him  he  has  brought  her  to  dis- 
grace— "    - 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  interrupted  Mary,  her  face  flushing 
with  indignant  shame.  But  Godfrey  went  on  without  heeding 
her  : 

"  A — nd  get  him  to  marry  her  off-hand,  if  you  can — for, 
by  God  !  he  shall  marry  her,  or  I  will  kill  him." 

He  spoke  looking  round  at  her  over  his  shoulder,  a  scowl 
on  his  face,  his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  one  hand  twisted  in  the 
mane  of  his  horse,  and  the  other  with  the  whip  stretched  out 
as  if  threatening  the  universe.  Mary  stood  white  but  calm, 
and  made  no  answer.  He  swung  himself  into  the  saddle,  and 
rode  away.     She  turned  to  the  gate. 

From  behind  the  shrubbery,  Tom  had  heard  all  that  passed 
between  them,  and,  meeting  her  as  she  entered,  led  the  way  to 
a  side- walk,  unseen  from  the  house. 

"  0  Miss  Marston  !  what  is  to  be  done  ? "  he. said.  " This 
is  a  terrible  business !  But  I  am  so  glad  you  have  got  her, 
poor  girl !  I  heard  all  you  said  to  that  brute,  Wardour.  Thank 
you,  thank  you  a  thousand  times,  for  taking  her  part.  Indeed, 
you  spoke  but  the  truth  for  her.  '  Let  me  tell  you  all  I 
know." 

He  had  not  much  to  tell,  however,  beyond  what  Mary  knew 
already. 

"She  keeps  calling  out  for  you,  Mr.  Helmer,"  she  said, 
when  he  had  ended. 

"I  will  go  Avith  you.     Come,  come,"  he  answered. 

"  You  will  leave  a  message  for  your  mother  ?  " 

"Never  mind  my  mother.  She's  good  at  finding  out  for 
herself." 

"  She  ought  to  be  told,"  said  Mary  ;  "but  I  can't  stop  to 
argue  it  with  you.  Certainly  your  first  duty  is  to  Letty  now. 
Oh,  if  people  only  wouldn't  hide  things  ! " 

"Come  along,"  cried  Tom,  hurrying  before  her;  "I  will 
soon  set  everything  right." 

"How  shall  we  manage  with  the  doctor  ?"  said  Mary,  as 


MARY  AND   GODFREY.  153 

they  went.  "We  can  not  do  without  him,  for  I  am  sure  she 
is  in  danger." 

"  Oh,  no  !"  said  Tom.  "  She  will  be  all  right  when  she 
sees  me.  But  we  will  take  the  doctor  on  our  way,  and  prepare 
him." 

When  they  came  to  the  doctor's  house,  Mary  walked  on, 
and  Tom  told  the  doctor  he  had  met  Miss  Marston  on  her  way 
to  him,  and  had  come  instead  :  she  wanted  to  let  him  know 
that  Miss  Lovel  had  come  to  her  quite  unexpected  that  morn- 
ing ;  that  she  was  delirious,  and  had  apparently  wandered 
from  home  under  an  attack  of  brain-fever,  or  something  of  the 
sort. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MAET    A2STD    GODFEET. 

Everything  went  very  tolerably,  so  far  as  concerned  the 
world  of  talk,  in  the  matter  of  Letty's  misfortunes.  Rumors, 
it  is  true — and  more  than  one  of  them  strange  enough — did  for 
a  time  go  floating  about  the  country  ;  but  none  of  them  came 
to  the  ears  of  Tom  or  of  Mary,  and  Letty  was  safe  from  hearing 
anything  ;  and  the  engagement  between  her  and  Tom  soon  be- 
came generally  known. 

Mrs.  Helmer  was  very  angry,  and  did  all  she  could  to  make 
Tom  break  it  off — it  was  so  much  below  him  !  But  in  nothing 
could  the  folly  of  the  woman  have  been  more  apparent  than  in 
her  fancying,  with  the  experience  of  her  life  before  her,  that 
any  opposition  of  hers  could  be  effectual  otherwise  than  to  the 
confirmation  of  her  son's  will.  So  short-sighted  was  she  as 
to  originate  most  of  the  reports  to  Letty's  disadvantage  ;  but 
Tom's  behavior,  on  the  other  hand,  was  strong  to  put  them 
down  ;  for  the  man  is  seldom  found  so  faithful  where  such  re- 
ports are  facts. 

Mrs.  Wardour  took  care  to  say  nothing  unkind  of  Letty. 
She  was  of  her  own  family  ;  and,  besides,  not  only  was  Tom  a 
better  match  than  she  could  have  expected  for  her,  but  she  was 


154  MART  MARSTOK 

more  than  satisfied  to  have  Godfrey's  dangerous  toy  thus  drawn 
away  beyond  his  reach.  As  soon  as  ever  the  doctor  gave  his 
permission,  she  went  to  see  her ;  but,  although,  dismayed  at 
sight  of  her  suffering  face,  she  did  not  utter  one  unkind  word, 
her  visit  was  so  plainly  injurious  in  its  effects,  that  it  was  long 
before  Mary  would  consent  to  a  repetition  of  it. 

Letty's  recovery  was  very  slow.  The  spring  was  close  at 
hand  before  the  bloom  began  to  reappear — and  then  it  was  but 
fitfully — in  Letty's  cheek.  Neither  her  gayety  nor  her  usual 
excess  of  timorousness  returned.  A  certain  sad  seriousness  had 
taken  the  place  of  both,  and  she  seemed  to  look  out  from  deeper 
eyes.  I  can  not  think  that  Letty  had  begun  to  perceive  that 
there  actually  is  a  Nature  shaping  us  to  its  own  ends ;  but  I 
think  she  had  begun  to  feel  that  Mary  lived  in  the  conscious 
presence  of  such  a  power.  To  Tom  she  behaved  very  sweetly, 
but  more  like  a  tender  sister  than  a  lover,  and  Mary  began  to 
doubt  whether  her  heart  was  altogether  Tom's.  From  mention 
of  approaching  marriage,  she  turned  with  a  nervous,  uneasy 
haste.  Had  the  insight  which  the  enforced  calmness  of  suffer- 
ing sometimes  brings  opened  her  eyes  to  anything  in  Tom  ? 
The  doubt  filled  Mary  with  anxiety.  She  thought  and  thought, 
until — delicate  matter  as  it  was  to  meddle  with,  and  small  en- 
couragement as  Godfrey  Wardour  had  given  her  to  expect 
sympathy — she  yet  made  up  her  mind  to  speak  to  him  on  the 
subject — and  the  rather  that  she  was  troubled  at  the  unwor- 
thiness  of  his  behavior  to  Letty :  gladly  would  she  have  him 
treat  her  with  the  generosity  essential  to  the  idea  she  had 
formed  of  him. 

She  went,  therefore,  one  Sunday  evening,  to  Thornwick, 
and  requested  to  see  Mr.  Wardour. 

It  was  plainly  an  unwilling  interview  he  granted  her,  but 
she  was  not  thereby  deterred  from  opening  her  mind  to  him. 

"I  fear,  Mr.  "Wardour,"  she  said,  " — I  come  altogether 
without  authority — but  I  fear  Letty  has  been  rather  hurried  in 
her  engagement  with  Mr.  Helmer.  I  think  she  dreads  being 
married — at  least  so  soon." 

"  You  would  have  her  break  it  off  ?  "  said  Godfrey,  with 
cold  restraint. 


MART  AND   GODFREY.  155 

"  No  ;  certainly  not,"  replied  Mary  ;  "  that  would  be  un- 
just to  Mr.  Helmer.  But  the  thing  was  so  hastened,  indeed, 
hurried,  by  that  unhappy  accident,  that  she  had  scarcely  time 
to  know  her  own  mind." 

"  Miss  Marston,"  answered  Godfrey,  severely,  "  it  is  her 
own  fault — all  and  entirely  her  own  fault." 

"  But,  surely,"  said  Mary,  "  it  will  not  do  for  us  to  insist 
upon  desert.     That  is  not  how  we  are  treated  ourselves." 

"  Is  it  not  ?  "  returned  Godfrey,  angrily.  "  My  experience 
is  different.  I  am  sure  my  faults  have  come  back  upon  me 
pretty  sharply. — She  must  marry  the  fellow,  or  her  character 
is  gone." 

"I  am  unwilling  to  grant  that,  Mr.  Wardour.  It  was 
wrong  in  her  to  have  anything  to  say  to  Mr.  Helmer  without 
your  knowledge,  and  a  foolish  thing  to  meet  him  as  she  did ; 
but  Letty  is  a  good  girl,  and  you  know  country  ways  are  old- 
fashioned,  and  in  itself  there  is  nothing  wicked  in  having  a 
talk  with  a  young  man  after  dark." 

"  You  speak,  I  dare  say,  as  such  things  are  regarded  in — 
certain  strata  of  society,"  returned  Godfrey,  coldly  ;  "  but 
such  views  do  not  hold  in  that  to  which  either  of  them  be- 
longs." 

"  It  seems  to  me  a  pity  they  should  not,  then,"  said  Mary. 
"  I  know  nothing  of  such  matters,  but,  surely,  young  people 
should  have  opportunities  of  understanding  each  other.  Any- 
how, marriage  is  a  heavy  penalty  to  pay  for  such  an  indiscre- 
tion. A  girl  might  like  a  young  man  well  enough  to  enjoy  a 
talk  with  him  now  and  then,  and  yet  find  it  hard  to  marry 
him." 

"  Did  you  come  here  to  dispute  social  customs  with  me, 
Miss  Marston  ?  "  said  Godfrey.  "  I  am  not  prepared,  nor,  in- 
deed, sufficiently  interested,  to  discuss  them  with  you." 

"  I  will  come  to  the  point  at  once,"  answered  Mary  ;  who, 
although  speaking  so  collectedly,  was  much  frightened  at  her 
own  boldness  :  Godfrey  seemed  from  his  knowledge  so  far 
above  her,  and  she  owed  him  so  much.  " — Would  it  not  be 
possible  for  Letty  to  return  here  ?  Then  the  thing  might  take 
its  natural  course,  and  Tom  and  she  know  each  other  better 


156  MARY  MARSTOK 

before  they  did  what  was  irrevocable.  They  are  little  better 
than  children  now." 

"  The  thing  is  absolutely  impossible,"  said  Godfrey,  and 
haughtily  rose  from  his  chair  like  one  in  authority  ending  an 
interview.  "But,"  he  added,  "you  have  been  put  to  great 
expense  for  the  foolish  girl,  and,  when  she  leaves  you,  I  desire 
you  will  let  me  know — " 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Wardour  !"  said  Mary,  who  had  risen 
also.  "As  you  have  now  given  a  turn  to  the  conversation 
which  is  not  in  the  least  interesting  to  me,  I  wish  you  a  good 
evening." 

With  the  words,  she  left  the  room.  He  had  made  her  angry 
at  last.  She  trembled  so  that,  the  instant  she  was  out  of  sight 
of  the  house,  she  had  to  sit  down  for  dread  of  falling. 

Godfrey  remained  in  the  room  where  she  left  him,  full  of 
indignation.  Ever  since  that  frightful  waking,  he  had  brooded 
over  the  injury — the  insult,  he  counted  it — which  Letty  had 
heaped  upon  him.  A  great  tenderness  toward  her,  to  himself 
unknown,  and  of  his  own  will  unbegotten,  remained  in  his 
spirit.  "When  he  passed  the  door  of  her  room,  returning  from 
that  terrible  ride,  he  locked  it,  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket, 
and  from  that  day  no  one  entered  the  chamber.  But,  had  he 
loved  Letty  as  purely  as  he  had  loved  her  selfishly,  he  would 
have  listened  to  Mary  pleading  in  her  behalf,  and  would  have 
thought  first  about  her  well-being,  not  about  her  character  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world.  He  would  have  seen  also  that,  while 
the  breath  of  the  world's  opinion  is  a  mockery  in  counterpoise 
with  a  life  of  broken  interest  and  the  society  of  an  unworthy 
husband,  the  mere  fact  of  his  mother's  receiving  her  again  at 
Thornwick  would  of  itself  be  enough  to  reestablish  her  posi- 
tion in  the  face  of  all  gainsayers.  But  in  Godfrey  Wardour 
love  and  pride  went  hand  in  hand.  Not  for  a  moment  would 
he  will  to  love  a  girl  capable  of  being  interested,  if  nothing 
more,  in  Tom  Helmer.  It  must  be  allowed,  however,  that  it 
would  have  been  a  terrible  torture  to  see  Letty  about  the  place, 
to  pass  her  on  the  stair,  to  come  upon  her  in  the  garden,  to  sit 
with  her  in  the  room,  and  know  all  the  time  that  it  was  the 
test  Of  Tom's  worth  and  her  constancy.     Even  were  she  to  give 


MARY  AND   GODFREY.  157 

up  Torn,  satisfied  that  she  did  not  lore  him,  she  could  be 
nothing  more  to  him,  even  in  the  relation  in  which  he  had 
allowed  her  to  think  she  stood  to  him.  She  had  behaved  too 
deceitfully,  too  heartlessly,  too  ungratefully,  too  vulgarly  for 
that !  Yet  was  his  heart  torn  every  time  the  vision  of  the 
gentle  girl  rose  before  "that  inward  eye,"  which,  for  long, 
could  no  more  be  to  him  "  the  bliss  of  solitude  "  ;  when  he  saw 
those  hazel  depths  looking  half  anxious,  half  sorrowful  in  his 
face,  as,  with  sadly  comic  sense  of  her  stupidity,  she  listened 
while  he  explained  or  read  something  he  loved.  But  no  ;  no- 
thing else  would  do  than  act  the  mere  honest  guardian,  com- 
pelling them  to  marry,  no  matter  how  slight  or  transient  the 
shadow  the  man  had  cast  over  her  reputation  ! 

Mary  returned  with  a  sense  of  utter  failure. 

But  before  long  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  all  was 
right  between  Tom  and  Letty,  and  that  the  cause  of  her  anxiety 
had  lain  merely  in  Letty's  loss  of  animal  spirits. 

Now  and  then  Mary  tried  to  turn  Tom's  attention  a  little 
toward  the  duty  of  religion  :  Tom  received  the  attempt  with 
gentle  amusement  and  a  little  badinage.  It  was  all  very  well 
for  girls  !  Indeed,  he  had  made  the  observation  that  girls  who 
had  no  religion  were  "strong-minded,"  and  that  he  could  not 
endure  !  Like  most  men,  he  was  so  well  satisfied  with  himself, 
that  he  saw  no  occasion  to  take  trouble  to  be  anything  better 
than  he  was.  Never  suspecting  what  a  noble  creature  he  was 
meant  to  be,  he  never  saw  what  a  poor  creature  he  was.  In 
his  own  eyes  he  was  a  man  any  girl  might  be  proud  to  marry. 
He  had  not  yet,  however,  sunk  to  the  depth  of  those  who,  hav- 
ing caught  a  glimpse  of  nobility,  confess  wretchedness,  excuse 
it,  and  decline  to  allow  that  the  noble  they  see  they  are  bound 
to  be  ;  or,  worse  still,  perhaps,  admit  the  obligation,  but  move 
no  inch  to  fulfill  it.  It  seems  to  me  that  such  must  one  day 
make  acquaintance  with  essential  misery — a  thing  of  which  they 
have  no  conception. 

Day  after  day  Tom  passed  through  Turnbull  and  Marston's 
shop  to  see  Letty.  Tom  cared  for  nobody,  else  he  would  have 
gone  in  by  the  kitchen-door,  which  Avas  the  only  other  entrance 
to  the  house ;  but  I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  a  pity  or  not 


158  MARY  MARSTON. 

that  he  did  not  hear  the  remarks  which  rose  like  the  dust  of  his 
passage  behind  him.  In  the  same  little  sitting-room,  where 
for  so  many  years  Mary  had  listened  to  the  slow,  tender  wis- 
dom of  her  father,  a  clever  young  man  was  now  making  love 
to  an  ignorant  girl,  whom  he  did  not  half  understand  or  half 
appreciate,  all  the  time  he  feeling  himself  the  greater  and  wiser 
and  more  valuable  of  the  two.  He  was  unaware,  however,  that 
he  did  feel  so,  for  he  had  never  yet  become  conscious  of  any 
fact  concerning  himself. 

The  whole  Turnbull  family,  from  the  beginnings  of  things 
self -constituted  judges  of  the  two  Marstons,  were  not  the  less 
critical  of  the  daughter,  that  the  father  had  been  taken  from 
her.  There  was  grumbling  in  the  shop  every  time  she  ran  up 
to  see  Letty,  every  one  regarding  her  and  speaking  of  her  as  a 
servant  neglecting  her  duty.  Yet  all  knew  well  enough  that 
she  was  co-proprietor  of  business  and  stock,  and  the  elder  Turn- 
bull  knew  besides  that,  if  the  lawyer  to  whose  care  William 
Marston  had  committed  his  daughter  were  at  that  moment  to 
go  into  the  affairs  of  the  partnership,  he  would  find  that  Mary 
had  a  much  larger  amount  of  money  actually  in  the  business 
than  he. 

Of  all  matters  connected  with  the  business,  except  those 
of  her  own  department,  Mary  was  ignorant.  Her  father  had 
never  neglected  his  duty,  but  he  had  so  far  neglected  what  the 
world  calls  a  man's  interests  as  to  leave  his  affairs  much  too 
exclusively  in  the  hands  of  his  partner  ;  he  had  been  too  much 
interested  in  life  itself  to  look  sharply  after  anything  less  than 
life.  He  acknowledged  no  worldly  interests  at  all :  either  God 
cared  for  his  interests  or  he  himself  did  not.  Whether  he 
might  not  have  been  more  attentive  to  the  state  of  his  affairs 
without  danger  of  deeper  loss,  I  do  not  care  to  examine  or 
determine  ;  the  result  of  his -life  in  the  world  was  a  grand  suc- 
cess. Now,  Mary's  feeling  and  judgment  in  regard  to  things 
being  identical  with  her  father's,  Turnbull,  instructed  by  his 
greed,  both  natural  and  acquired,  argued  thus — unconsciously 
almost,  but  not  the  less  argued — that  what  Mary  valued  so  lit- 
tle, and  he  valued  so  much,  must,  by  necessary  deduction,  be 
more  his  than  hers — and  logically  ought  to  be  legally.     So  ser- 


MARY  IN  THE  SHOP.  159 

vants  begin  to  steal,  arguing  that  such,  and  such  things  are 
only  lying  about,  and  nobody  cares  for  them. 

But  Turnbull,  knowing  that,  notwithstanding  the  reason 
on  his  side,  it  was  not  safe  to  act  on  such  a  conclusion,  had 
for  some  time  felt  no  little  anxiety  to  secure  himself  from  in- 
vestigation and  possible  disaster  by  the  marriage  of  Mary  to 
his  son  George. 

Tom  Helmer  had  now  to  learn  that,  by  his  father's  will,  made 
doubtless  under  the  influence  of  his  mother,  he  was  to  have  but 
a  small  annuity  so  long  as  she  lived.  Upon  this  he  determined 
nevertheless  to  marry,  confident  in  his  literary  faculty,  which, 
he  never  doubted,  would  soon  raise  it  to  a  very  sufficient  in- 
come. Nor  did  Mary  attempt  to  dissuade  him ;  for  what  could 
be  better  for  a  disposition  like  his  than  care  for  the  things  of 
this  life,  occasioned  by  the  needs  of  others  dependent  upon 
him  !  Besides,  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  else  now  possible  for 
Letty.  So,  in  the  early  summer,  they  were  married,  no  rela- 
tive present  except  Mrs.  "Wardour,  Mrs.  Helmer  and  Godfrey 
having  both  declined  their  invitation  ;  and  no  friend,  except 
Mary  for  bridesmaid,  and  Mr.  Pycroft,  a  school  and  college 
friend  of  Tom's,  who  was  now  making  a  bohemian  livelihood 
in  London  by  writing  for  the  weekly  press,  as  he  called  certain 
journals  of  no  high  standing,  for  groom's  man.  After  the 
ceremony,  and  a  breakfast  provided  by  Mary,  the  young  couple 
took  the  train  for  London. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

MARY     IN     THE     SHOP. 

More  than  a  year  had  now  passed  from  the  opening  of  my 
narrative.  It  was  full  summer  again  at  Testbridge,  and  things, 
to  the  careless  eye,  were  unchanged,  and,  to  the  careless  mind, 
would  never  change,  although,  in  fact,  nothing  was  the  same, 
and  nothing  could  continue  as  it  now  was.  For  were  not  the 
earth  and  the  sun  a  little  colder  ?    Had  not  the  moon  crum- 


160  MART  MARSTON. 

bled  a  little  ?  And  had  not  the  eternal  warmth,  unperceived 
save  of  a  few,  drawn  a  little  nearer — the  clock  that  measures 
the  eternal  day  ticked  one  tick  more  to  the  hour  when  the  Son 
of  Man  will  come  ?  But  the  greed  and  the  fawning  did  go  on 
unchanged,  save  it  were  for  the  worse,  in  the  shop  of  Turnbull 
and  Marston,  seasoned  only  with  the  heavenly  salt  of  Mary's 
good  ministration. 

She  was  very  lonely.  Letty  was  gone  ;  and  the  link  be- 
tween Mr.  Wardour  and  her  not  only  broken,  but  a  gulf  of 
separation  in  its  place.  Not  the  less  remained  the  good  he  had 
given  her.  No  good  is  ever  lost.  The  heavenly  porter  was 
departed,  but  had  left  the  door  wide.  She  had  seen  him  but 
once  since  Letty's  marriage,  and  then  his  salutation  was  like 
that  of  a  dead  man  in  a  dream  ;  for  in  his  sore  heart  he  still 
imagined  her  the  confidante  of  Letty's  deception. 

But  the  shadow  of  her  father's  absence  swallowed  all  the 
other  shadows.  The  air  of  warmth  and  peace  and  conscious 
safety  which  had  hitherto  surrounded  her  was  gone,  and  in  its 
place  cold,  exposure,  and  annoyance.  Between  them  her  fa- 
ther and  she  had  originated  a  mutually  protective  atmosphere 
of  love ;  when  that  failed,  the  atmosphere  of  earthly  relation 
rushed  in  and  enveloped  her.  The  moment  of  her  father's  de- 
parture, malign  influences,  inimical  to  the  very  springs  of  her 
life,  concentrated  themselves  upon  her  :  it  was  the  design  of 
John  Turnbull  that  she  should  not  be  comfortable  so  long  as 
she  did  not  irrevocably  cast  in  her  lot  with  his  family ;  and, 
the  rest  in  the  shop  being  mostly  creatures  of  his  own  choice, 
by  a  sort  of  implicit  understanding  they  proceeded  to  make 
her  uncomfortable.  So  long  as  they  confined  themselves  to 
silence,  neglect,  and  general  exclusion,  Mary  heeded  little  their 
behavior,  for  no  intercourse  with  them,  beyond  that  of  exter- 
nal good  offices,  could  be  better  than  indifferent  to  her ;  but, 
when  they  advanced  to  positive  interference,  her  position  be- 
came indeed  hard  to  endure.  They  would,  for  instance,  keep 
watch  on  her  serving,  and,  as  soon  as  the  customer  was  gone, 
would  find  open  fault  with  this  or  that  she  had  said  or  done. 
But  even  this  was  comparatively  endurable  :  when  they  ad- 
vanced to  the  insolence  of  doing  the  same  in  the  presence  of 


MART  W  THE  SHOP.  161 

the  customer,  she  found  it  more  than  she  could  bear  with  even 
a  show  of  equanimity.  She  did  her  best,  however  ;  and  for 
some  time  things  went  on  without  any  symptom  of  approach- 
ing crisis.  But  it  was  impossible  this  should  continue  ;  for, 
had  she  been  capable  of  endless  endurance,  her  persecutors 
would  only  have  -  gone  on  to  worse.  But  Mary  was  naturally 
quick-tempered,  and  the  chief  trouble  they  caused  her  was  the 
control  of  her  temper  ;  for,  although  she  had  early  come  to 
recognize  the  imperative  duty  of  this  branch  of  self-govern- 
ment, she  was  not  yet  perfect  in  it.  Not  every  one  who  can  serve 
unboundedly  can  endure  patiently  ;  and  the  more  gentle  some 
natures,  the  more  they  resent  the  rudeness  which  springs  from 
an  opposite  nature  ;  absolutely  courteous,  they  flame  at  dis- 
courtesy, and  thus  lack  of  the  perfection  to  which  patience 
would  and  must  raise  them.  When  Turnbull,  in  the  narrow 
space  behind  the  counter,  would  push  his  way  past  her  without 
other  pretense  of  apology  than  something  like  a  sneer,  she  did 
feel  for  a  moment  as  if  evil  were  about  to  have  the  victory  over 
her  ;  and  when  Mrs.  Turnbull  came  in,  which  happily  was  but 
seldom,  she  felt  as  if  from  some  sepulchre  in  her  mind  a  very 
demon  sprang  to  meet  her.  For  she  behaved  to  her  worst  of 
all.  She  would  heave  herself  in  with  the  air  and  look  of  a  vul- 
gar duchess  ;  for,  from  the  height  of  her  small  consciousness, 
she  looked  down  upon  the  shop,  and  never  entered  it  save  as  a 
customer.  The  daughter  of  a  small  country  attorney,  who, 
notwithstanding  his  unneglected  opportunities,  had  not  been 
too  successful  to  accept  as  a  husband  for  his  daughter  such  a 
tradesman  as  John  Turnbull,  she  arrogated  position  from  her 
idea  of  her  father's  position  ;  and,  while  bitterly  cherishing 
the  feeling  that  she  had  married  beneath  her,  obstinately  ex- 
cluded the  fact  that  therein  she  had  descended  to  her  hus- 
band's level,  regarding  herself  much  in  the  light  of  a  prin- 
cess whose  disguise  takes  nothing  from  her  rank.  She  was 
like  those  ladies  who,  having  set  their  seal  to  the  death  of 
their  first  husbands  by  marrying  again,  yet  cling  to  the  title 
they  gave  them,  and  continue  to  call  themselves  by  their  name. 
Mrs.  Turnbull  never  bought  a  dress  at  the  shop.  No  one 
should  say  of  her,  it  was  easy  for  a  snail  to  live  in  a  castle  ! 


162  MARY  MARSTOK 

She  took  pains  to  let  her  precious  public  know  that  she  went 
to  London  to  make  her  purchases.  If  she  did  not  mention 
also  that  she  made  them  at  the  warehouses  where  her  husband 
was  a  customer,  procuring  them  at  the  same  price  he  would 
haye  paid,  it  was  because  she  saw  no  occasion.  It  was  indeed 
only  for  some  small  occasional  necessity  she  ever  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  place  whence  came  all  the  money  she  had  to 
spend.  When  she  did,  she  entered  it  with  such  airs  as  she 
imagined  to  represent  the  consciousness  of  the  scion  of  a  coun- 
ty family  :  there  is  one  show  of  breeding  vulgarity  seldom 
assumes — simplicity.  No  sign  of  recognition  would  pass 
between  her  husband  and  herself  :  by  one  stern  refusal  to 
acknowledge  his  advances,  she  had  from  the  first  taught  him 
that  in  the  shop  they  were  strangers  :  he  saw  the  rock  of 
ridicule  ahead,  and  required  no  second  lesson  :  when  she  was 
present,  he  never  knew  it.  George  had  learned  the  lesson 
before  he  went  into  the  business,  and  Mary  had  never  required 
it.  The  others  behaved  to  her  as  to  any  customer  known  to 
stand  upon  her  dignity,  but  she  made  them  no  return  in 
politeness  ;  and  the  way  she  would  order  Mary,  now  there  was 
no  father  to  offend,  would  have  been  amusing  enough  but  for 
the  irritation  its  extreme  rudeness  caused  her.  She  did,  how- 
ever, manage  sometimes  to  be  at  once  both  a  little  angry  and 
much  amused.  Small  idea  had  Mrs.  Turnbull  of  the  diver- 
sion which  on  such  occasions  she  afforded  the  customers  pres- 
ent. 

One  day,  a  short  time  before  her  marriage,  delayed  by  the 
illness  of  Mr.  Eedmain,  Miss  Mortimer  happened  to  be  in  the 
shop,  and  was  being  served  by  Mary,  when  Mrs.  Turnbull 
entered.  Careless  of  the  customer,  she  walked  straight  up  to 
her  as  if  she  saw  none,  and  in  a  tone  that  would  be  dignified, 
and  was  haughty,  desired  her  to  bring  her  a  reel  of  marking- 
cotton.  Now  it  had  been  a  principle  with  Mary's  father,  and 
she  had  thoroughly  learned  it,  that  whatever  would  be  counted 
a  rudeness  by  any  customer,  must  be  shown  to  none.  i(  If  all 
are  equal  in  the  sight  of  God,"  he  would  say,  "how  dare  I 
leave  a  poor  woman  to  serve  a  rich  ?  Would  I  leave  one  count- 
ess to  serve  another  ?    My  business  is  to  sell  in  the  name  of 


MART  IE  TEE  SEOP.  163 

Christ.  To  respect  persons  in  the  shop  would  be  just  the 
same  as  to  do  it  in  the  chapel,  and  would  be  to  deny  him." 

"Excuse  me,  ma'am,"  said  Mary,  "I  am  waiting  on  Miss 
Mortimer,"  and  went  on  with  what  she  was  about.  Mrs. 
Turnbull  flounced  away,  a  little  abashed,  not  by  Mary,  but  by 
finding  who  the  customer  was,  and  carried  her  commands 
across  the  shop.  After  a  moment  or  two,  however,  imagining, 
in  the  blindness  of  her  surging  anger,  that  Miss  Mortimer  was 
gone,  whereas  she  had  only  moved  a  little  farther  on  to  look  at 
something,  she  walked  up  to  Mary  in  a  fury. 

"Miss  Marston,"  she  said,  her  voice  half  choked  with  rage, 
"  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  what  you  mean  by  your  imper- 
tinence." 

"I  am  sorry  you  should  think  me  impertinent,"  answered 
Mary.  "  You  saw  yourself  I  was  engaged  with  a  customer, 
and  could  not  attend  to  you." 

"Your  tone  was  insufferable,  miss  ! "  cried  the  grand  lady ; 
but  what  more  she  would  have  said  I  can  not  tell,  for  just  then 
Miss  Mortimer  resumed  her  place  in  front  of  Mary.  She  had 
no  idea  of  her  position  in  the  shop,  neither  suspected  who  her 
assailant  was,  and,  fearing  the  woman's  accusation  might  do  her 
an  injury,  felt  compelled  to  interfere. 

"  Miss  Marston,"  she  said — she  had  just  heard  Mrs.  Turnbull 
use  her  name — "  if  you  should  be  called  to  account  by  your  em- 
ployer, will  you,  please,  refer  to  me  ?  You  were  perfectly  civil 
both  to  me  and  to  this — "  she  hesitated  a  perceptible  moment, 
but  ended  with  the  word  "  lady,"  peculiarly  toned. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Mary,  with  a  smile,  "but  it  is 
of  no  consequence." 

This  answer  would  have  almost  driven  the  woman  out  of 
her  reason — already,  between  annoyance  with  herself  and  anger 
with  Mary,  her  hue  was  purple  :  something  she  called  her  con- 
stitution required  a  nightly  glass  of  brandy-and- water — but  she 
was  so  dumf oundecl  by  Miss  Mortimer's  defense  of  Mary,  which 
she  looked  upon  as  an  assault  on  herself,  so  painfully  aware 
that  all  hands  were  arrested  and  all  eyes  fixed  on  herself,  and 
so  mortified  with  the  conviction  that  her  husband  was  enjoying 
her  discomfiture,  that,  with  what  haughtiness  she  could  extern- 


164:  MART  MARSTOK 

porize  from  consuming  offense,  she  made  a  sudden  vortical 
gyration,  and  walked  from  the  vile  place. 

2sTow,  George  never  lost  a  chance  of  recommending  himself 
to  Mary  by  siding  with  her — but  only  after  the  battle.  He 
came  up  to  her  now  with  a  mean,  unpleasant  look,-  intended  to 
represent  sympathy,  and,  approaching  his  face  to  hers,  said, 
confidentially : 

"  What  made  my  mother  speak  to  you  like  that,  Mary  ?  " 

"  You  must  ask  herself,"  she  answered. 

"There  you  are,  as  usual,  Mary  ! "  he  protested  ;  "you  will 
never  let  a  fellow  take  your  part !  " 

"  If  you  wanted  to  take  my  part,  you  should  have  done  so 
when  there  would  have  been  some  good  in  it." 

"  How  could  I,  before  Miss  Mortimer,  you  know  ! " 

"  Then  why  do  it  now  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see — it's  hard  to  bear  hearing,  you  ill  used ! 
What  did  you  say  to  Miss  Mortimer  that  angered  my  mother  ?  " 

His  father  heard  him,  and,  taking  the  cue,  called  out  in  the 
rudest  fashion  : 

"If  you  think,  Mary,  you're  going  to  take  liberties  with 
customers  because  you've  got  no  one  over  you,  the  sooner  you 
find  you're  mistaken  the  better." 

Mary  made  him  no  answer. 

On  her  way  to  "the  villa,"  Mrs.  Turnbull,  spurred  by  spite, 
had  got  hold  of  the  same  idea  as  George,  only  that  she  invented 
where  he  had  but  imagined  it ;  and  when  her  husband  came 
home  in  the  evening  fell  out  upon  him  for  allowing  Mary  to  be 
impertinent  to  his  customers,  in  whom  for  the  first  time  she 
condescended  to  show  an  interest  : 

"There  she  was,  talking  away  to  that  Miss  Mortimer  as  if 
she  was  Beenie  in  the  kitchen  !  County  people  won't  stand 
being  treated  as  if  one  was  just  as  good  as  another,  I  can  tell 
you !  She'll  be  the  ruin  of  the  business,  with  her  fine-lady- 
airs  !     Who's  she,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

"I  shall  speak  to  her,"  said  the  husband.  "  But,"  he  went 
on,  "  I  fear  you  will  no  longer  approve  of  marrying  her  to 
George,  if  you  think  she's  an  injury  to  the  business  !" 

"  You  know,  as  well  as  I  do,  that  is  the  readiest  way  to  get 


MARY  IN  TEE  SEOP.  165 

her  out  of  it.  Make  her  marry  George,  and  she  will  fall  into 
my  hands.  If  I  don't  make  her  repent  her  impudence  then, 
you  may  call  me  the  fool  you  think  me." 

Mary  knew  well  enough  what  they  wanted  of  her  ;  but  of 
the  real  cause  at  the  root  of  their  desire  she  had  no  suspicion. 
Eecoiling  altogether  from  Mr.  Turnbull's  theories  of  business, 
which  were  in  flat  repudiation  of  the  laws  of  Him  who  alone 
understands  either  man  or  his  business,  she  yet  had  not  a  doubt 
of  his  honesty  as  the  trades  and  professions  count  honesty. 
Her  father  had  left  the  money  affairs  of  the  firm  to  Mr.  Turn- 
bull,  and  she  did  the  same.  It  was  for  no  other  reason  than 
that  her  position  had  become  almost  intolerable,  that  she  now 
began  to  wonder  if  she  was  bound  to  this  mode  of  life,  and 
whether  it  might  not  be  possible  to  forsake  it. 

Greed  is  the  soul's  thieving ;  where  there  is  greed,  there  can 
not  be  honesty.  John  Turnbull,  it  is  true,  was  not  only  proud 
of  his  reputation  for  honesty,  but  prided  himself  on  being  an 
honest  man  ;  yet  not  the  less  was  he  dishonest — and  that  with 
a  dishonesty  such  as  few  of  those  called  thieves  have  attained  to. 

Like  most  of  his  kind,  he  had  been  neither  so  vulgar  nor 
so  dishonest  from  the  first.  In  the  prime  of  youth  he  had  had 
what  the  people  about  him  called  high  notions,  and  counted 
quixotic  fancies.  But  it  was  not  their  mockery  of  his  tall  talk 
that  turned  him  aside  ;  opposition  invariably  confirmed  Turn- 
bull.  He  had  never  set  his  face  in  the  right  direction.  The 
seducing  influence  lay  in  himself.  It  was  not  the  truth  he  had 
loved  :  it  was  the  show  of  fine  sentiment  he  had  enjoyed.  The 
distinction  of  holding  loftier  opinions  than  his  neighbors  was 
the  ground  of  his  advocacy  of  them.  Something  of  the  beauty 
of  the  truth  he  must  have  seen — who  does  not  ? — else  he  could 
not  have  been  thus  moved  at  all ;  but  he  had  never  denied  him- 
self even  a  whim  for  the  carrying  out  of  one  of  his  ideas ;  he 
had  never  set  himself  to  be  better  ;  and  the  whole  mountain- 
chain,  therefore,  of  his  notions  sank  and  sank,  until  at  length 
their  loftiest  peak  was  the  maxim,  Honesty  is  the  best  policy — 
a  maxim  which,  true  enough  in  fact,  will  no  more  make  a  man 
honest  than  the  economic  aphorism,  The  supply  equals  the  de- 
mand, will  teach  him  the  niceties  of  social  duty,     Whoever 


166  MARY  MARSTON. 

makes  policy  the  ground  of  his  honesty  will  discover  more  and 
more  exceptions  to  the  rule.  The  career,  therefore,  of  Turn- 
bull  of  the  high  notions  had  been  a  gradual  descent  to  the 
level  of  his  present  dishonesty  and  vulgarity ;  nothing  is  so 
vulgarizing  as  dishonesty.  I  do  not  care  to  follow  the  history 
of  any  man  downward.  Let  him  who  desires  to  look  on  such 
a  panorama,  faithfully  and  thoroughly  depicted,  read  Auer- 
bach's  "Diethelm  von  Buchenberg." 

Things  went  a  little  more  quietly  in  the  shop  after  this 
for  a  while  :  Turnbull  probably  was  afraid  of  precipitating 
matters,  and  driving  Mary  to  seek  counsel — from  which  much 
injury  might  arise  to  his  condition  and  prospects.  As  if  to 
make  amends  for  past  rudeness,  he  even  took  some  pains  to  be 
polite,  putting  on  something  of  the  manners  with  which  he 
favored  his  "best  customers,"  of  all  mankind  in  his  eyes  the 
most  to  be  honored.  This,  of  course,  rendered  him  odious  in 
the  eyes  of  Mary,  and  ripened  the  desire  to  free  herself  from 
circumstances  which  from  garments  seemed  to  have  grown 
cerements.  She  was,  however,  too  much  her  father's  daughter 
to  do  anything  in  haste. 

She  might  have  been  less  willing  to  abandon  them,  had  she 
had  any  friends  like-minded  with  herself,  but,  while  they  were 
all  kindly  disposed  to  her,  none  of  the  religious  associates  of 
her  father,  who  knew,  or  might  have  known  her  well,  approved 
of  her.  They  spoke  of  her  generally  with  a  shake  of  the  head, 
and  an  unquestioned  feeling  that  God  was  not  pleased  with  her. 
There  are  few  of  the  so-called  religious  who  seem  able  to  trust 
either  God  or  their  neighbor  in  matters  that  concern  those  two 
and  no  other.  Nor  had  she  had  opportunity  of  making  ac- 
quaintance with  any  who  believed  and  lived  like  her  father,  in 
other  of  the  Christian  communities  of  the  town,  But  she  had 
her  Bible,  and,  when  that  troubled  her,  as  it  did  not  a  little 
sometimes,  she  had  the  Eternal  Wisdom  to  cry  to  for  such  wis- 
dom as  she  could  receive ;  and  one  of  the  things  she  learned 
was,  that  nowhere  in  the  Bible  was  she  called  on  to  believe  in 
the  Bible,  but  in  the  living  God,  in  whom  is  no  darkness,  and 
who  alone  can  give  light  to  understand  his  own  intent.  All 
her  troubles  she  carried  to  him. 


MART  IN  TEE  SEOP.  167 

It  was  not  always  the  solitude  of  her  room  that  Mary  sought 
to  get  out  of  the  wind  of  the  world.  Her  love  of  nature  had 
been  growing  stronger,  notably,  from  her  father's  death.  If 
the  world  is  God's,  every  true  man  ought  to  feel  at  home  in  it. 
Something  is  wrong  if  the  calm  of  the  summer  night  does  not 
sink  into  the  heart,  for  the  peace  of  God  is  there  embodied. 
Something  is  wrong  in  the  man  to  whom  the  sunrise  is  not  a 
divine  glory,  for  therein  are  embodied  the  truth,  the  simplicity, 
the  might  of  the  Maker.  When  all  is  true  in  us,  we  shall  feel 
the  visible  presence  of  the  Watchful  and  Loving  ;  for  the  thing 
that  he  works  is  its  sign  and  symbol,  its  clothing  fact.  In  the 
gentle  conference  of  earth  and  sky,  in  the  witnessing  colors  of 
the  west,  in  the  wind  that  so  gently  visited  her  cheek,  in  the 
great  burst  of  a  new  morning,  Mary  saw  the  sordid  affairs  of 
Mammon,  to  whose  worship  the  shop  seemed  to  become  more 
and  more  of  a  temple,  sink  to  the  bottom  of  things,  as  the 
mud,  which,  during  the  day,  the  feet  of  the  drinking  cattle 
have  stirred,  sinks  in  the  silent  night  to  the  bottom  of  the  clear 
pool ;  and  she  saw  that  the  sordid  is  all  in  the  soul,  and  not  in 
the  shop.  The  service  of  Christ  is  help.  The  service  of  Mam- 
mon is  greed. 

Letty  was  no  good  correspondent :  after  one  letter  in  which 
she  declared  herself  perfectly  happy,  and  another  in  which  she 
said  almost  nothing,  her  communication  ceased.  Mrs.  War- 
dour  had  been  in  the  shop  again  and  again,  but  on  each  occasion 
had  sought  the  service  of  another ;  and  once,  indeed,  when 
Mary  alone  was  disengaged,  had  waited  until  another  was  at 
liberty.  While  Letty  was  in  her  house,  she  had  been  civil,  but, 
as  soon  as  she  was  gone,  seemed  to  show  that  she  held  her  con- 
cerned in  the  scandal  that  had  befallen  Thornwick.  Once,  as 
I  have  said,  she  met  Godfrey.  It  was  in  the  fields.  He  was 
walking  hurriedly,  as  usual,  but  with  his  head  bent,  and  a 
gloomy  gaze  fixed  upon  nothing  visible.  He  started  when  he 
saw  her,  took  his  hat  off,  and,  with  his  eyes  seeming  to  look 
far  away  beyond  her,  passed  without  a  word.  Yet  had  she 
been  to  him  a  true  pupil ;  for,  although  neither  of  them  knew 
it,  Mary  had  learned  more  from  Godfrey  than  Godfrey,  was 
capable  of  teaching.     She  had  turned  thought  and  feeling  into 


168  MART  MARSTON. 

life,  into  reality,  into  creation.  They  speak  of  the  creations 
of  the  human  intellect,  of  the  human  imagination !  there  is 
nothing  man  can  do  comes  half  so  near  the  making  of  the 
Maker  as  the  ordering  of  his  way — except  one  thing :  the 
highest  creation  of  which  man  is  capable,  is  to  will  the  will 
of  the  Father.  That  has  in  it  an  element  of  the  purely 
creative,  and  then  is  man  likest  God.  But  simply  to  do  what 
we  ought,  is  an  altogether  higher,  diviner,  more  potent,  more 
creative  thing,  than  to  write  the  grandest  poem,  paint  the 
most  beautiful  picture,  carve  the  mightiest  statue,  build  the 
most  worshiping  temple,  dream  out  the  most  enchanting  com- 
motion of  melody  and  harmony.  If  Godfrey  could  have  seen 
the  soul  of  the  maiden  into  whose  face  his  discourtesy  called 
the  hot  blood,  he  would  have  beheld  there  simply  what  God 
made  the  earth  for  ;  as  it  was,  he  saw  a  shop-girl,  to  whom  in 
happier  circumstances  he  had  shown  kindness,  in  whom  he  was 
now  no  longer  interested.  But  the  sight  of  his  troubled  face 
called  up  all  the  mother  in  her ;  a  rush  of  tenderness,  born  of 
gratitude,  flooded  her  heart.  He  was  sad,  and  she  could  do 
nothing  to  comfort  him  !  He  had  been  royally  good  to  her, 
and  no  return  was  in  her  power.  She  could  not  even  let  him 
know  how  she  had  profited  by  his  gifts  !  She  could  come  near 
him  with  no  ministration  !  The  bond  between  them  was  an 
eternal  one,  yet  were  they  separated  by  a  gulf  of  unrelation. 
Not  a  mountain-range,  but  a  stayless  nothingness  parted  them. 
She  built  many  a  castle,  with  walls  of  gratitude  and  floors  of 
service  to  entertain  Godfrey  Wardour ;  but  they  stood  on  no 
foundation  of  imagined  possibility. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE   WEDDIKG-DRESS. 

Foe  all  her  troubles,  however,  Mary  had  her  pleasures, 
even  in  the  shop.  It  was  a  delight  to  receive  the  friendly 
greetings  of  such  as  had  known  and  honored  her  father.     She 


TEE   WEDDING-DRESS.  169 

had  the  pleasure,  as  real  as  it  was  simple,  of  pure  service,  reap- 
ing tlie  fruit  of  the  earth  in  the  joy  of  the  work  that  was  given 
her  to  do ;  there  is  no  true  work  that  does  not  carry  its  re- 
ward, though  there  are  few  that  do  not  drop  it  and  lose  it. 
She  gathered  also  the  pleasure  of  seeing  and  talking  with  peo- 
ple whose  manners  and  speech  were  of  finer  grain  and  tone 
than  those  ahout  her.  When  Hesper  Mortimer  entered  the 
shop,  she  brought  with  her  delight ;  her  carriage  was  like  the 
gait  of  an  ode  ;  her  motions  were  rhythm  ;  and  her  speech  was 
music.  Her  smile  was  light,  and  her  whole  presence  an  en- 
chantment to  Mary.  The  reading  aloud  which  Wardour  had 
led  her  to  practice  had  taught  her  much,  not  'only  in  respect 
of  the  delicacies'  of  speech  and  utterance,  but  in  the  deeper 
matters  of  motion,  relation,  and  harmony.  Hesper's  clear-cut 
but  not  too  sharply  defined  consonants ;  her  soft  but  full- 
bodied  vowels ;  above  all,  her  slow  cadences  that  hovered  on 
the  verge  of  song,  as  her  walk  on  the  verge  of  a  slow  aerial 
dance ;  the  carriage  of  her  head,  the  movements  of  her  lips, 
her  arms,  her  hands  ;  the  self-possession  that  seemed  the  very 
embodiment  of  law — these  formed  together  a  whole  of  inex- 
pressible delight,  inextricably  for  Mary  associated  with  music 
and  verse  :  she  would  hasten  to  serve  her  as  if  she  had  been  an 
angel  come  to  do  a  little  earthly  shopping,  and  return  with 
the  next  heavenward  tide.  Hesper,  in  response  all  but  uncon- 
scious, would  be  waited  on  by  no  other  than  Mary  ;  and  always 
between  them  passed  some  sweet,  gentle  nothings,  which  af- 
forded Hesper  more  pleasure  than  she  could  have  accounted 
for. 

Her  wedding-day  was  now  for  the  third  time  fixed,  when 
one  morning  she  entered  the  shop  to  make  some  purchases. 
Not  happy  in  the  prospect  before  her,  she  was  yet  inclined  to 
make  the  best  of  it  so  far  as  clothes  were  concerned — the  more 
so,  perhaps,  that  she  had  seldom  yet  been  dressed  to  her  satis- 
faction :  she  was  now  brooding  over  a  certain  idea  for  her  wed- 
ding-dress, which  she  had  altogether  failed  in  the  attempt  to 
convey  to  her  London  couturiere ;  and  it  had  come  into  her 
head  to  try  whether  Mary  might  not  grasp  her  idea,  and  help 
her  to  make  it  intelligible. 


170  MARY  MARSTOK 

Mary  listened  and  thought,  questioned,  and  desired  ex- 
planations— at  length,  begged  she  would  allow  her  to  ponder 
the  thing  a  little  :  she  could  hardly  at  once  venture  to  say  any- 
thing,, Hesper  laughed,  and  said  she  was  taking  a  small  mat- 
ter too  seriously — concluding  from  Mary's  hesitation  that  she 
had  but  perplexed  her,  and  that  she  could  be  of  no  use  to  her 
in  the  difficulty. 

"A  small  matter?  Your  wedding-dress!"  exclaimed 
Mary,  in  a  tone  of  expostulation. 

Hesper  did  not  laugh  again,  but  gave  a  little  sigh  instead, 
which  struck  sadly  on  Mary's  sympathetic  heart.  She  cast  a 
quick  look  in  her  face.  Hesper  caught  the  look,  and  under- 
stood it.  For  one  passing  moment  she  felt  as  if,  amid  the 
poor  pleasure  of  adorning  herself  for  a  hated  marriage,  she  had 
found  a  precious  thing  of  which  she  had  once  or  twice  dreamed, 
never  thought  as  a  possible  existence — a  friend,  namely,  to 
love  her  :  the  next,  she  saw  the  absurdity  of  imagining  a 
friend  in  a  shop-girl. 

"  But  I  must  make  up  my  mind  so  soon  ! "  she  answered. 
"Madame  Crepine  gave  me  her  idea,  in  answer  to  mine,  but 
nothing  like  it,  two  days  ago ;  and,  as  I  have  not  written 
again,  I  fear  she  may  be  taking  her  own  way  with  the  thing. 
I  am  certain  to  hate  it." 

"  I  will  talk  to  you  about  it  as  early  as  you  please  to-mor- 
row, if  that  will  do,"  returned  Mary. 

She  knew  nothing  about  dressmaking  beyond  what  came  of 
a  true  taste,  and  the  experience  gained  in  cutting  out  and  mak- 
ing her  own  garments,  which  she  had  never  yet  found  a  dress- 
maker to  do  to  her  mind  ;  and,  indeed,  Hesper  had  been  led  to 
ask  her  advice  mainly  from  observing  how  neat  the  design  of 
her  dresses  was,  and  how  faithfully  they  fitted  her.  Dress  is  a 
sort  of  freemasonry  between  girls. 

"But  I  can  not  have  the  horses  to-morrow,"  said  Hesper. 

"I  might,"  pondered  Mary  aloud,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
"walk  out  to  Durnmelling  this  evening  after  the  shop  is  shut. 
By  that  time  I  shall  have  been  able  to  think  ;  I  find  it  impos- 
sible, with  you  before  me." 

Hesper  acknowledged  the  compliment  with  a  very  pleasant 


TEE   WEDDING-DRESS.  171 

smile.  If  it  be  true,  as  I  may  not  doubt,  that  women,  in  dress- 
ing, have  the  fear  of  women  and  not  of  men  before  their  eyes, 
then  a  compliment  from  some  women  must  be  more  acceptable 
to  some  than  a  compliment  from  any  man  but  the  specially 
favored. 

"Thank  you  a  thousand  times,"  she  drawled,  sweetly. 
"Then  I  shall  expect  you.  Ask  for  my  maid.  She  will  take 
you  to  my  room.     Good-by  for  the  present." 

As  soon  as  she  was  gone,  Mary,  her  mind's  eye  full  of  her 
figure,  her  look,  her  style,  her  motion,  gave  herself  to  the  im- 
portant question  of  the  dress  conceived  by  Hesper  ;  and  during 
her  dinner-hour  contrived  to  cut  out  and  fit  to  her  own  person 
the  pattern  of  a  garment  such  as  she  supposed  intended  in  the 
not  very  lucid  description  she  had  given  her.  When  she  was 
free,  she  set  out  with  it  for  Durnmelling. 

It  was  rather  a  long  walk,  the  earlier  part  of  it  full  of  sad 
reminders  of  the  pleasure  with  which,  greater  than  ever  ac- 
companied her  to  church,  she  went  to  pay  her  Sunday  visit  at 
Thornwick ;  but  the  latter  part,  although  the  places  were  so 
near,  almost  new  to  her  :  she  had  never  been  within  the  gate 
of  Durnmelling,  and  felt  curious  to  see  the  house  of  which  she 
had  so  often  heard. 

The  butler  opened  the  door  to  her — an  elderly  man,  of  con- 
scious dignity  rather  than  pride,  who  received  the  "  young  per- 
son "  graciously,  and,  leaving  her  in  the  entrance-hall,  went  to 
find  "Miss  Mortimer's  maid,"  he  said,  though  there  was  but 
one  lady's-maid  in  the  establishment. 

The  few  moments  she  had  to  wait  far  more  than  repaid  her 
for  the  trouble  she  had  taken  :  through  a  side-door  she  looked 
into  the  great  roofless  hall,  the  one  grand  thing  about  the  house. 
Its  majesty  laid  hold  upon  her,  and  the  shopkeeper's  daughter 
felt  the  power  of  the  ancient  dignity  and  ineffaceable  beauty 
far  more  than  any  of  the  family  to  which  it  had  for  centuries 
belonged. 

She  was  standing  lost  in  delight,  when  a  rude  voice  called 
to  her  from  half-way  up  a  stair  : 

"You're  to  come  this  way,  miss." 

"With  a  start,  she  turned  and  went. 


1Y2  MART  MARSTOK 

It  was  a  large  room  to  which  she  was  led.  There  was  no 
one  in  it,  and  she  walked  to  an  open  window,  which  had  a  wide 
outlook  across  the  fields.  A  little  to  the  right,  over  some  trees, 
were  the  chimneys  of  Thorn  wick.  She  almost  started  to  see 
them — so  near,  and  yet  so  far — like  the  memory  of  a  sweet,  sad 
story. 

1 '  Do  you  like  my  prospect  ?  "  asked  the  voice  of  Hesper 
behind  her.     "It  is  flat." 

"I  like  it  much,  Miss  Mortimer,"  answered  Mary,  turning 
quickly  with  a  bright  face.  "  Flatness  has  its  own  beauty.  I 
sometimes  feel  as  if  room  was  all  I  wanted  ;  and  of  that  there 
is  so  much  there  !  You  see  over  the  tree-tops,  too,  and  that  is 
good — sometimes — don't  you  think  ?  " 

Miss  Mortimer  gave  no  other  reply  than  a  gentle  stare,  which 
expressed  no  curiosity,  although  she  had  a  vague  feeling  that 
Mary's  words  meant  something.  Most  girls  of  her  class  would 
hardly  have  got  so  far. 

The  summer  was  backward,  but  the  day  had  been  fine  and 
warm,  and  the  evening  was  dewy  and  soft,  and  full  of  evasive 
odor.  The  window  looked  westward,  and  the  setting  sun  threw 
long  shadows  toward  the  house.  A  gentle  wind  was  moving  in 
the  tree-tops.  The  spirit  of  the  evening  had  laid  hold  of  Mary. 
The  peace  of  faithfulness  filled  the  air.  The  day's  business 
vanished,  molten  in  the  rest  of  the  coming  night.  Even  Hesper's 
wedding-dress  was  gone  from  her  thoughts.  She  was  in  her  own 
world,  and  ready,  for  very  quietness  of  spirit,  to  go  to  sleep. 
But  she  had  not  forgotten  the  delight  of  Hesper's  presence  ;  it 
was  only  that  all  relation  between  them  was  gone  except  such 
as  was  purely  human. 

"This  reminds  me  so  of  some  beautiful  verses  of  Henry 
Vaughan  ! "  she  said,  half  dreamily. 

"What  do  they  say  ?"  drawled  Hesper. 

Mary  repeated  as  follows  : 

"  '  The  frosts  are  past,  the  storms  are  gone, 
And  backward  life  at  last  comes  on. 
And  here  in  dust  and  dirt,  O  here, 
The  Lilies  of  His  love  appear ! '  " 


THE  WEDDING-DRESS.  173 

"  Whose  did  you  say  the  lines  were  ?  "  asked  Hesper,  with 
merest  automatic  response. 

"Henry  Vaughan's,"  answered  Mary,  with  a  little  spiritual 
shiver,  as  of  one  who  had  dropped  a  pearl  in  the  miry  way. 

"I  never  heard  of  him,"  rejoined  Hesper,  with  entire  in- 
difference. 

For  anything  she  knew,  he  might  be  an  occasional  writer 
in  "The  Belgraye  Magazine,"  or  "  The  Fireside  Herald."  Ig- 
norance is  one  of  the  many  things  of  which  a  lady  of  position 
is  never  ashamed ;  wherein  she  is,  it  may  be,  more  right  than 
most  of  my  readers  will  be  inclined  to  allow  ;  for  ignorance  is 
not  the  thing  to  be  ashamed  of,  but  neglect  of  knowledge. 
That  a  young  person  in  Mary's  position  should  know  a"  certain 
thing,  was,  on  the  other  hand,  a  reason  why  a  lady  in  Hesper's 
position  should  not  know  it !  Was  it  possible  a  shop-girl 
should  know  anything  that  Hesper  ought  to  know  and  did 
not  ?  It  was  foolish  of  Mary,  perhaps,  but  she  had  vaguely 
felt  that  a  beautiful  lady  like  Miss  Mortimer,  and  with  such  a 
name  as  Hesper,  must  know  all  the  lovely  things  she  knew,  and 
many  more  besides. 

"He  lived  in  the  time  of  the  Charleses,"  she  said,  with  a 
tremble  in  her  voice,  for  she  was  ashamed  to  show  her  knowl- 
edge against  the  other's  ignorance. 

"Ah  !"  drawled  Hesper,  with  a  confused  feeling  that  peo- 
ple who  kept  shops  read  stupid  old  books  that  lay  about,  be- 
cause they  could  not  subscribe  to  a  circulating  library. — "Are 
you  fond  of  poetry  ?  "  she  added  ;  for  the  slight,  shadowy  shy- 
ness, into  which  her  venture  had  thrown  Mary,  drew  her  heart 
a  little,  though  she  hardly  knew  it,  and  inclined  her  to  say 
something. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mary,  who  felt  like  a  child  questioned  by 
a  stranger  in  the  road  ;  " — when  it  is  good,"  she  added,  hesi- 
tatingly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  good  ?"  asked  Hesper — out  of  her 
knowledge,  Mary  thought,  but  it  was  not  even  out  of  her  ig- 
norance, only  out  of  her  indifference.  People  must  say  some- 
thing, lest  life  should  stop. 

"That  is  a  question  difficult  to  answer,"  replied  Mary. 


174:  MART  MARS  TOW. 

"I  have  often  asked  it  of  myself,  but  never  got  any  plain  an- 
swer." 

"I  do  not  see  why  you  should  find  any  difficulty  in  it," 
returned  Hesper,  with  a  shadow  of  interest.  "You  know 
what  you  mean  when  you  say  to  yourself  you  like  this,  or  you 
do  not  like  that." 

"How  clever  she  is,  too!"  thought  Mary;  but  she  an- 
swered :  "  I  don't  think  I  ever  say  anything  to  myself  about  the 
poetry  I  read — not  at  the  time,  I  mean.  If  I  like  it,  it  drowns 
me ;  and,  if  I  don't  like  it,  it  is  as  the  Dead  Sea  to  me,  in 
which  you  know  you  can't  sink,  if  you  try  ever  so." 

Hesper  saw  nothing  in  the  words,  and  began  to  fear  that 
Mary  was  so  stupid  as  to  imagine  herself  clever ;  whereupon 
the  fancy  she  had  taken  to  her  began  to  sink  like  water  in  sand. 
The  two  were  still  on  their  feet,  near  the  window — Mary,  in  her 
bonnet,  with  her  back  to  it,  and  Hesper,  in  evening  attire, 
with  her  face  to  the  sunset,  so  that  the  one  was  like  a  darkling 
worshiper,  the  other  like  the  radiant  goddess.  But  the  truth 
was,  that  Hesper  was  a  mere  earthly  woman,  and  Mary  a  heav- 
enly messenger  to  her.  Neither  of  them  knew  it,  but  so  it 
was ;  for  the  angels  are  essentially  humble,  and  Hesper  would 
have  condescended  to  any  angel  out  of  her  own  class. 

"I  think  I  know  good  poetry  by  what  it  does  to  me,"  re- 
sumed Mary,  thoughtfully,  just  as  Hesper  was  about  to  pass 
to  the  business  of  the  hour. 

"Indeed!"  rejoined  Hesper,  not  less  puzzled  than  before, 
if  the  word  should  be  used  where  there  was  no  effort  to  under- 
stand. Poetry  had  never  done  anything  to  her,  and  Mary's 
words  conveyed  no  shadow  of  an  idea. 

The  tone  of  her  indeed  checked  Mary.  She  hesitated  a 
moment,  but  went  on. 

"Sometimes,"  she  said,  "it  makes  me  feel  as  if  my  heart 
were  too  big  for  my  body ;  sometimes  as  if  all  the  grand  things 
in  heaven  and  earth  were  trying  to  get  into  me  at  once  ;  some- 
times as  if  I  had  discovered  something  nobody  else  knew ; 
sometimes  as  if — no,  not  as  if,  for  then  I  must  go  and  pray  to 
God.  But  I  am  trying  to  tell  you  what  I  don't  know  how  to  tell. 
I  am  not  talking  nonsense,  I  hope,  only  ashamed  of  myself 


.      THE   WEDDING-DRESS.  175 

that  I  can't  talk  sense. — I  will  show  you  what  I  have  been 
doing  about  your  dress." 

Far  more  to  Hesper's  surprise  and  admiration  than  any  of 
her  half-foiled  attempts  at  the  utterance  of  her  thoughts, 
Mary,  taking  from  her  pocket  the  shape  she  had  prepared,  put 
it  on  herself,  and,  slowly  revolving  before  Hesper,  revealed  what 
in  her  eyes  was  a  masterpiece. 

"But  how  clever  of  you!"  she  cried. — Her  own  fingers 
had  not  been  quite  innocent  of  the  labor  of  the  needle,  for 
money  had  long  been  scarce  at  Durnmelling,  and  in  the  paper 
shape  she  recognized  the  hand  of  an  artist. — "  Why,"  she  con- 
tinued, "you  are  nothing  less  than  an  accomplished  dress- 
maker ! " 

"That  I  dare  not  think  myself,"  returned  Mary,  "seeing  I 
never  had  a  lesson. " 

"I  wish  you  would  make  my  wedding-dress,"  said  Hesper. 

"I  could  not  venture,  even  if  I  had  the  time,"  answered 
Mary.  "The  moment  I  began  to  cut  into  the  stuff,  I  should 
be  terrified,  and  lose  my  self-possession.  I  never  made  a  dress 
for  anybody  but  myself." 

"You  are  a  little  witch  !"  said  Hesper;  while  Mary,  who 
had  roughly  prepared  a  larger  shape,  proceeded  to  fit  it  to  her 
person. 

She  was  busy  pinning  and  unpinning,  shifting  and  pinning 
again,  when  suddenly  Hesper  said  : 

"I  suppose  you  know  I  am  going  to  marry  money  ?" 

"  Oh  !  don't  say  that.  It's  too  dreadful ! "  cried  Mary, 
stopping  her  work,  and  looking  up  in  Hesper's  face. 

"What !  you  supposed  I  was  going  to  marry  a  man  like 
Mr.  Kedmain  for  love  ?"  rejoined  Hesper,  with  a  hard  laugh. 

"  I  can  not  bear  to  think  of  it ! "  said  Mary.  "But  you  do 
not  really  mean  it !  You  are  only — making  fun  of  me  !  Do 
say  you  are." 

"Indeed,  I  am  not.  I  wish  I  could  say  I  was  !  It  is  very 
horrid,  I  know,  but  where's  the  good  of  mincing  matters  ?  If 
I  did  not  call  the  thing  by  its  name,  the  thing  would  be  just 
the  same.  You  know,  people  in  our  world  have  to  do  as  they 
must ;  they  can't  pick  and  choose  like  you  happy  creatures.     I 


176  MARY  MAES f OK 

dare  say,  now,  you  are  engaged  to  a  young  man  you  love  with 
all  your  heart,  one  you  would  rather  marry  than  any  other  in 
the  whole  universe." 

"Oh,. dear,  no  !"  returned  Mary,  with  a  smile  most  plainly 
fancy-free.     "  I  am  not  engaged,  nor  in  the  least  likely  to  be." 

"And  not  in  love  either  ?"  said  Hesper — with  such  cool- 
ness that  Mary  looked  up  in  her  face  to  know  if  she  had  really 
said  so. 

"]STo,"  she  replied. 

"No  more  am  I,"  echoed  Hesper;  "that  is  the  one  good 
thing  in  the  business  :  I  sha'n't  break  my  heart,  as  some  girls 
do.  At  least,  so  they  say — I  don't  believe  it :  how  could  a  girl 
be  so  indecent  ?  It  is  bad  enough  to  marry  a  man  :  that  one 
can't  avoid ;  but  to  die  of  a  broken  heart  is  to  be  a  traitor  to 
your  sex.     As  if  women  couldn't  live  without  men  ! " 

Mary  smiled,  and  was  silent.  She  had  read  a  good  deal, 
and  thought  she  understood  such  things  better  than  Miss  Mor- 
timer. But  she  caught  herself  smiling,  and  felt  as  if  she  had 
sinned.  For  that  a  young  woman  should  speak  of  love  and 
marriage  as  Miss  Mortimer  did,  was  too  horrible  to  be  under- 
stood— and  she  had  smiled  !  She  would  have  been  less  shocked 
with  Hesper,  however,  had  she  known  that  she  forced  an  in- 
difference she  could  not  feel — her  last  poor  rampart  of  sand 
against  the  sea  of  horror  rising  around  her.  But  from  her 
heart  she  pitied  her,  almost  as  one  of  the  lost. 

"Don't  fix  your  eyes  like  that,"  said  Hesper,  angrily,  "or 
I  shall  cry.  Look  the  other  way,  and  listen. — I  am  marrying 
money,  I  tell  you — and  for  money ;  therefore,  I  ought  to  get 
the  good  of  it.  Mr.  Mortimer  will  be  father  enough  to  see  to 
that  !  So  I  shall  be  able  to  do  what  I  please.  I  have  fallen  in 
love  with  you  ;  and  why  shouldn't  I  have  you  for  my — " 

She  paused,  hesitating  :  what  was  it  she  •  was  about  to  pro- 
pose to  the  little  lady  standing  before  her  ?  She  had  been  going 
to  say  maid :  what  was  it  that  checked  her  ?  The  feeling  was 
to  herself  shapeless  and  nameless ;  but,  however  some  of  my 
readers  may  smile  at  the  notion  of  a  girl  who  served  behind  a 
counter  being  a  lady,  and  however  ready  Hesper  Mortimer 
would  have  been  to  join  them,  it  was  yet  a  vague  sense  of  the 


THE   WEDDING-DRESS.  177 

fact  that  was  now  embarrassing  her,  for  she  was  not  half  lady- 
enough  to  deal  with  it.  In  very  truth,  Mary  Marston  was  al- 
ready immeasurably  more  of  a  lady  than  Hesper  Mortimer  was 
ever  likely  to  be  in  this  world.  What  was  the  stateliness  and 
pride  of  the  one  compared  to  the  fact  that  the  other  would 
have  died  in  the  workhouse  or  the  street  rather  than  let  a  man 
she  did  not  love  embrace  her — yes,  if  all  her  ancestors  in  hell 
had  required  the  sacrifice  !  To  be  a  martyr  to  a  lie  is  but  false 
ladjdiood.  She  only  is  a  lady  who  witnesses  to  the  truth,  come 
of  it  what  may. 

" — For  my — my  companion,  or  something  of  the  sort,"  con- 
cluded Hesper ;  "and  then  I  should  be  sure  of  being  always 
dressed  to  my  mind." 

"That  would  be  nice  !"  responded  Mary,  thinking  only  of 
the  kindness  in  the  speech. 

"  Would  you  really  like  it  ?  "  asked  Hesper,  in  her  turn 
pleased. 

"I  should  like  it  very  much,"  replied  Mary,  not  imagining 
the  proposal  had  in  it  a  shadow  of  seriousness.  "I  wish  it 
were  possible." 

"  Why  not,  then  ?  Why  shouldn't  it  be  possible  ?  I  don't 
suppose  you  would  mind  using  your  needle  a  little  ?  " 

"Not  in  the  least,"  answered  Mary,  amused.  "Only  what 
would  they  do  in  the  shop  without  me  ? " 

"  They  could  get  somebody  else,  couldn't  they  ?" 

"Hardly,  to  take  my  place.  My  father  was  Mr.  TurnbulFs 
partner. " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Hesper,  not  much  instructed.  "  I  thought 
you  had  only  to  give  warning." 

There  the  matter  dropped,  and  Mary  thought  no  more 
about  it.  * 

"You  will  let  me  keep  this  pattern  ? "  said  Hesper. 

"  It  was  made  for  you,"  answered  Mary. 

While  Hesper  was  lazily  thinking  whether  that  meant  she 
was  to  pay  for  it,  Mary  made  her  a  pretty  obeisance,  and  bade 
her  good  night.  Hesper  returned  her  adieu  kindly,  but  neither 
shook  hands  with  her  nor  rang  the  bell  to  have  her  shown  out. 
Mary  found  her  own  way,  however,  and  presently  was  breath- 


178  MARY  MAES TOK 

ing  the  fresh  air  of  the  twilight  fields  on  her  way  home  to  her 
piano  and  her  books. 

For  some  time  after  she  was  gone,  Hesper  was  entirely  occu- 
pied with-  the  excogitation  of  certain  harmonies  of  the  toilet 
that  must  minister  effect  to  the  dress  she  had  now  so  plainly 
before  her  mind's  eye ;  but  by  and  by  the  dress  began  to  melt 
away,  and  like  a  dissolving  view  disappeared,  leaving  in  its 
place  the  form  of  "that  singular  shop-girl."  There  was  no- 
thing striking  about  her  ;  she  made  no  such  sharp  impression 
on  the  mind  as  compelled  one  to  think  of  her  again  ;  yet  al- 
ways, when  one  had  been  long  enough  in  her  company  to  feel 
the  charm  of  her  individuality,  the  very  quiet  of  any  quiet 
moment  was  enough  to  bring  back  the  sweetness  of  Mary's 
twilight  presence.  For  this  girl,  who  spent  her  days  behind  a 
counter,  was  one  of  the  spiritual  forces  at  work  for  the  con- 
servation and  recovery  of  the  universe. 

Not  only  had  Hesper  Mortimer  never  had  a  friend  worthy 
of  the  name,  but  no  idea  of  pure  friendship  had  as  yet  been 
generated  in  her.  Sepia  was  the  nearest  to  her  intimacy  :  how 
far  friendship  could  have  place  between  two  such  I  need  not 
inquire  ;  but  in  her  fits  of  misery  Hesper  had  no  other  to  go 
to.  Those  fits,  alas  !  grew  less  and  less  frequent ;  for  Hesper 
was  on  the  downward  incline  ;  but,  when  the  next  came,  after 
this  interview,  she  found  herself  haunted,  at  a  little  distance, 
as  it  were,  by  a  strange  sense  of  dumb,  invisible  tending.  It 
did  not  once  come  close  to  her  ;  it  did  not  once  offer  her  the 
smallest  positive  consolation  ;  the  thing  was  only  this,  that  the 
essence  of  Mary's  being  was  so  purely  ministration,  that  her 
form  could  not  recur  to  any  memory  without  bringing  with  it 
a  dreamy  sense  of  help.  Most  powerful  of  all  powers  in  its 
holy  insinuation  is  being.  To  be  is  more  powerful  than  even 
to  do.  Action  may  be  hypocrisy,  but  being  is  the  thing  itself, 
and  is  the  parent  of  action.  Had  anything  that  Mary  said 
recurred  to  Hesper,  she  would  have  thought  of  it  only  as  the 
poor  sentimentality  of  a  low  education. 

But  Hesper  did  not  think  of  Mary's  position  as  low  ;  that 
would  have  been  to  measure  it ;  and  it  did  not  once  suggest  it- 
self as  having  any  relation  to  any  life  in  which  she  was  inter- 


MR.  REDMAIN.  1Y9 

ested.  She  saw  no  difference  of  level  between  Mary  and  the 
lawyer  who  came  about  her  marriage  settlements :  they  were 
together  beyond  her  social  horizon.  In  like  manner,  moral  dif- 
ferences— and  that  in  her  own  class — were  almost  equally  be- 
yond recognition.  If  by  neglect  of  its  wings,  an  eagle  should 
sink  to  a  dodo,  it  would  then  recognize  only  the  laws  of  dodo 
life.  For  the  dodos  of  humanity,  did  not  one  believe  in  a  con- 
suming fire  and  an  outer  darkness,  what  would  be  left  us  but 
an  ever-renewed  alas!  It  is  truth  and  not  imperturbability 
that  a  man's  nature  requires  of  him  ;  it  is  help,  not  the  leaving 
of  cards  at  doors,  that  will  be  recognized  as  the  test ;  it  is  love, 
and  no  amount  of  flattery  that  will  prosper  ;  differences  wide 
as  that  between  a  gentleman  and  a  cad  will  contract  to  a  hair's 
breadth  in  that  day  ;  the  customs  of  the  trade  and  the  picking 
of  pockets  will  go  together,  with  the  greater  excuse  for  the 
greater  need  and  the  less  knowledge  ;  liars  the  most  gentleman- 
like and  the  most  rowdy  will  go  as  liars  ;  the  first  shall  be  last, 
and  the  last  first. 

Hesper's  day  drew  on.  She  had  many  things  to  think  about 
— things  very  different  from  any  that  concerned  Mary  Marston. 
She  was  married ;  found  life  in  London  somewhat  absorbing ; 
and  forgot  Mary. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

MR.    EED3IAIN". 

A  life  of  comparatively  innocent  gayety  could  not  be  at- 
tractive to  Mr.  Redmain,  but  at  first  he  accompanied  his  wife 
everywhere.  No  one  knew  better  than  he  that  not  an  atom  of 
love  had  mingled  with  her  motives  in  marrying  him  ;  but  for 
a  time  he  seemed  bent  on  showing  her  that  she  needed  not  have 
been  so  averse  to  him.  Whether  this  was  indeed  his  design  or 
not,  I  imagine  he  enjoyed  the  admiration  she  roused  :  for  why 
should  not  a  man  take  pride  in  the  possession  of  a  fine  woman 
as  well  as  in  that  of  a  fine  horse  ?  To  be  sure,  Mrs.  Redmain 
was  not  quite  in  the  same  way,  nor  quite  so  much  his,  as  his 


180  MARY  MARSTOK 

horses  were,  and  might  one  day  be  a  good  deal  less  his  than 
she  was  now  ;  but  in  the  mean  time  she  was,  I  fancy,  a  pleas- 
ant break  in  the  gathering  monotony  of  his  existence.  As  he 
got  more  accustomed  to  the  sight  of  her  in  a  crowd,  however, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  her  not  very  interesting  company  in 
private,  when  she  took  not  the  smallest  pains  to  please  him,  he 
gradually  lapsed  into  his  former  ways,  and  soon  came  to  spend 
his  evenings  in  company  that  made  him  forget  his  wife.  He 
had  loved  her  in  a  sort  of  a  way,  better  left  undefined,  and  had 
also,  almost  from  the  first,  hated  her  a  little ;  for,  following 
her  cousin's  advice,  she  had  appealed  to  him  to  save  her,  and, 
when  he  evaded  her  prayer,  had  addressed  him  in  certain  terms 
too  appropriate  to  be  agreeable,  and  too  forcible  to  be  forgot- 
ten. His  hatred,  however,  if  that  be  not  much  too  strong  a 
name,  was  neither  virulent  nor  hot,  for  it  had  no  inverted  love 
to  feed  and  embitter  it.  It  was  more  a  thing  of  his  head  than 
his  heart,  revealing  itself  mainly  in  short,  acrid  speeches,  meant 
to  be  clever,  and  indubitably  disagreeable.  Nor  did  Hesper 
prove  an  unworthy  antagonist  in  their  encounters  of  polite 
Billingsgate  :  what  she  lacked  in  experience  she  made  up  in 
breeding.  The  common  remark,  generally  false,  about  no  love 
being  lost,  was  in  their  case  true  enough,  for  there  never  had 
been  any  between  them  to  lose.  The  withered  rose-leaves  have 
their  sweetness  yet,  but  what  of  the  rotted  peony  ?  It  was 
generally  when  Redmain  had  been  longer  than  usual  without 
seeing  his  wife  that  he  said  the  worst  things  to  her,  as  if  spite 
had  grown  in  absence  ;  but  that  he  should  then  be  capable  of 
saying  such  things  as  he  did  say,  could  be  understood  only  by 
those  who  knew  the  man  and  his  history. 

Ferdinand  Goldberg  Redmain — parents  with  mean  sur- 
roundings often  give  grand  names  to  their  children — was  the 
son  of  an  intellectually  gifted  laborer,  who,  rising  first  to  be 
boss  of  a  gang,  began  to  take  portions  of  contracts,  and 
arrived  at  last,  through  one  lucky  venture  after  another,  at 
having  his  estimate  accepted  and  the  contract  given  him  for  a 
rather  large  affair.  The  result  was  that,  through  his  minute 
knowledge  of  details,  his  faculty  for  getting  work  out  of  his 
laborers,  a  toughness  of  heart  and  will  that  enabled  him  to 


MR.  REBMAIN.  181 

screw  wages  to  the  lowest  mark,  and  the  judicious  employment 
of  inferior  material,  the  contract  paid  him  much  too  well  for 
any  good  to  come  out  of  it.  From  that  time,  what  he  called 
his  life  was  a  continuous  course  of  what  he  called  success,  and 
he  died  one  of  the  richest  dirt-beetles  of  the  age,  bequeathing 
great  wealth  to  his  son,  and  leaving  a  reputation  for  substan- 
tial worth  behind  him  ;  hardly  leaving  it,  I  fancy,  for  surely 
he  found  it  waiting  him  where  he  went.  He  had  been  guilty 
of  a  thousand  meannesses,  oppressions,  rapacities,  and  some 
quiet  rogueries,  but  none  of  them  worse  than  those  of  many  a 
man  whose  ultimate  failure  has  been  the  sole  cause  of  his  ex- 
communication by  the  society  which  all  the  time  knew  well 
enough  what  he  was.  Often  had  he  been  held  up  by  would-be 
teachers  as  a  pattern  to  aspiring  j^outh  of  what  might  be 
achieved  by  unwavering  attention  to  the  main  chance,  com- 
bined with  unassailable  honesty :  from  his  experience  they 
would  once  more  prove  to  a  gaping  world  the  truth  of  the 
maxim,  the  highest  intelligible  to  a  base  soul,  that  "honesty 
is  the  best  policy."  With  his  money  he  left  to  his  son  the 
seeds  of  a  varied  meanness,  which  bore  weeds  enough,  but 
curiously,  neither  avarice  nor,  within  the  bounds  of  a  modest 
prudence,  any  unwillingness  to  part  with  money — a  fact  which 
will  probably  appear  the  stranger  when  I  have  told  the  follow- 
ing anecdote  concerning  a  brother  of  the  father,  of  whom  few 
indeed  mentioned  in  my  narrative  ever  heard. 

This  man  was  a  joiner,  or  working  cabinet-maker,  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort.  Having  one  day  been  set  by  his  master  to 
repair  for  an  old  lady  an  escritoire  which  had  been  in  her  pos- 
session for  a  long  time,  he  came  to  her  house  in  the  evening 
with  a  five-pound  note  of  a  country  bank,  which  he  had  found 
in  a  secret  drawer  of  the  same,  handing  it  to  her  with  the 
remark  that  he  had  always  found  honesty  the  best  policy. 
She  gave  him  half  a  sovereign,  and  he  took  his  leave  well 
satisfied.  He  had  been  first  to  make  inquiry,  and  had  learned 
that  the  bank  stopped  payment  many  years  ago.  I  can  not 
help  wondering,  curious  in  the  statistics  of  honesty,  how  many 
of  my  readers  will  be  more  amused  than  disgusted  with  the 
story. 


182  MART  MARSTOK 

It  is  a  great  thing  to  come  of  decent  people,  and  Ferdinand 
Goldberg  Eedmain  must  not  be  judged  like  one  who,  of  honor- 
able parentage,  whether  noble  or  peasant,  takes  himself  across 
to  the  shady  side  of  the  road.  Much  had  been  against  Eed- 
main. I  do  not  know  of  what  sort  his  mother  was,  but  from 
certain  embryonic  virtues  in  him,  which  could  hardly  have  been 
his  father's,  I  should  think  she  must  have  been  better  than  her 
husband.  She  died,  however,  while  he  was  a  mere  child  ;  and 
his  father  married,  some  said  did  not  marry  again.  The  boy 
was  sent  to  a  certain  public  school,  which  at  that  time,  what- 
ever it  may  or  may  not  be  now,  was  simply  a  hot-bed  of  the 
lowest  vices,  and  in  devil-matters  Eedmain  was  an  apt  pupil. 
There  is  fresh  help  for  the  world  every  time  a  youth  starts 
clean  upon  manhood's  race  ;  his  very  being  is  a  hope  of  clean- 
sing :  this  one  started  as  foul  as  youth  could  well  be,  and  had 
not  yet  begun  to  repent.  His  character  was  well  known  to  his 
associates,  for  he'was  no  hypocrite,  and  Hesper's  father  knew  it 
perfectly,  and  was  therefore  worse  than  he.  Had  Eedmain  had  a 
daughter,  he  would  never  have  given  her  to  a  man  like  himself. 
But,  then,  Mortimer  was  so  poor,  and  Eedmain  was  so  very  rich  ! 
Alas  for  the  man  who  degrades  his  poverty  by  worshiping  wealth  ! 
there  is  no  abyss  in  hell  too  deep  for  him  to  find  its  bottom. 

Mr.  Eedmain  had  no  profession,  and  knew  nothing  of  busi- 
ness beyond  what  was  necessary  for  understanding  whether  his 
factor  or  steward,  or  whatever  he  called  him,  was  doing  well 
with  his  money — to  that  he  gave  heed.  Also,  wiser  than  many, 
he  took  some  little  care  not  to  spend  at  full  speed  what  life  he 
had.  With  this  view  he  laid  down  and  observed  certain  rules 
in  the  ordering  of  his  pleasures,  which  enabled  him  to  keep 
ahead  of  the  vice-constable  for  some  time  longer  than  would 
otherwise  have  been  the  case.  But  he  is  one  who  can  never 
finally  be  outrun,  and  now,  as  Mr.  Eedmain  was  approaching 
the  end  of  middle  age,  he  heard  plainly  enough  the  approach 
of  the  wool-footed  avenger  behind  him.  Horrible  was  the  in- 
evitable to  him,  as  horrible  as  to  any ;  but  it  had  not  yet  looked 
frightful  enough  to  arrest  his  downward  rush.  In  his  better 
conditions — physical,  I  mean — whether  he  had  any  better  moral 
conditions.  I  can  not  tell — he  would  laugh  and  say,  "  Gather  the 


MB.   REDMAIN.  183 

roses  while  you  may  " — heaven  and  earth  !  what  roses  ! — but,  in 
his  worse,  he  maledicted  everything,  and  was  horribly  afraid 
of  hell.  When  in  tolerable  health,  he  laughed  at  the  notion  of 
such  an  out-of-the-way  place,  repudiating  its  very  existence,, 
and,  calling  in  all  the  arguments  urged  by  good  men  against 
the  idea  of  an  eternity  of  aimless  suffering,  used  them  against 
the  idea  of  any  punishment  after  death.  Himself  a  bad  man, 
he  reasoned  that  God  was  too  good  to  punish  sin ;  himself  a 
proud  man,  he  reasoned  that  God  was  too  high  to  take  heed  of 
him.  He  forgot  the  best  argument  he  could  have  adduced — 
namely,  that  the  punishment  he  had  had  in  this  life  had  done 
him  no  good ;  from  which  he  might  have  been  glad  to  argue 
that  none  would,  and  therefore  none  would  be  tried.  But  I 
suppose  his  mother  believed  there  was  a  hell,  for  at  such  times, 
when  from  weariness  he  was  less  of  an  evil  beast  than  usual, 
the  old-fashioned  horror  would  inevitably  raise  its  deinosaurian 
head  afresh  above  the  slime  of  his  consciousness  ;  and  then  even 
his  wife,  could  she  have  seen  how  the  soul  of  the  man  shud- 
dered and  recoiled,  would  have  let  his  brutality  pass  unheeded, 
though  it  was  then  at  its  worst,  his  temper  at  such  times  being 
altogether  furious.  There  was  no  grace  in  him  when  he  was 
ill,  nor  at  any  time,  beyond  a  certain  cold  grace  of  manner, 
which  he  kept  for  ceremony,  or  where  he  wanted  to  please. 

Happily,  Mr.  Eedmain  had  one  intellectual  passion,  which, 
poor  thing  as  it  was,  and  in  its  motive,  most  of  its  aspects,  and 
almost  all  its  tendencies,  evil  exceedingly,  yet  did  something 
to  delay  that  corruption  of  his  being  which,  at  the  same  time, 
it  powerfully  aided  to  complete  :  it  was  for  the  understanding 
and  analysis  of  human  evil — not  in  the  abstract,  but  alive  and 
operative.  For  the  appeasement  of  this  passion,  he  must  ren- 
der intelligible  to  himself,  and  that  on  his  own  exclusive  theory 
of  human  vileness,  the  aims  and  workings  of  every  fresh  speci- 
men of  what  he  called  human  nature  that  seemed  bad  enough, 
or  was  peculiar  enough  to  interest  him.  In  this  region  of  dark- 
ness he  ranged  like  a  discoverer — prowled  rather,  like  an  unclean 
beast  of  prey — ever  and  always  on  the  outlook  for  the  false  and 
foul ;  acknowledging,  it  is  true,  that  he  was  no  better  himself, 
but  arrogating  on  that  ground  a  correctness  of  judgment  be- 


184  MART  MARSTOK 

yond  the  reach  of  such  as,  desiring  to  be  better,  were  unwilling 
to  believe  in  the  utter  badness  of  anything  human.  Like  a 
lover,  he  would  watch  for  the  appearance  of  the  vile  motive, 
the  self-interest,  that  "must  be,"  he  Tcnew,  at  the  heart  of  this 
or  that  deed  or  proceeding  of  apparent  benevolence  or  gener- 
osity. Often,  alas  !  the  thing  was  provable  ;  and,  where  he  did 
not  find,  he  was  quick  to  invent ;  and,  where  he  failed  in  find- 
ing or  inventing,  he  not  the  less  believed  the  bad  motive  was 
there,  and  followed  the  slightest  seeming  trail  of  the  cunning 
demon  only  the  more  eagerly.  What  a  smile  was  his  when  he 
heard,  which  truly  he  was  not  in  the  way  to  hear  often,  the 
praise  of  some  good  deed,  or  an  ascription  of  high  end  to  some 
endeavor  of  one  of  the  vile  race  to  which  he  belonged  !  Do 
those  who  abuse  their  kind  actually  believe  they  are  of  it  ? 
Do  they  hold  themselves  exceptions  ?  Do  they  never  reflect 
that  it  must  be  because  such  is  their  own  nature,  whether  their 
accusation  be  true  or  false,  that  they  know  how  to  attribute  such 
motives  to  their  fellows  ?  Or  is  it  that,  actually  and  immedi- 
ately rejoicing  in  iniquity,  they  delight  in  believing  it  universal  ? 
Quiet  as  a  panther,  Eedmain  was,  I  say,  always  in  pursuit, 
if  not  of  something  sensual  for  himself,  then  of  something 
evil  in  another.  He  would  sit  at  his  club,  silent  and  watching, 
day  after  day,  night  after  night,  waiting  for  the  chance  that 
should  cast  light  on  some  idea  of  detection,  on  some  doubt, 
bewilderment,  or  conjecture.  He  would  ask  the  farthest-off 
questions  :  who  could  tell  what  might  send  him  into  the  track 
of  discovery  ?  He  would  give  to  the  talk  the  strangest  turns, 
laying  trap  after  trap  to  ensnare  the  most  miserable  of  facts,  el- 
evated into  a  desirable  secret  only  by  his  hope  to  learn  through 
it  something  equally  valueless  beyond  it.  Especially  he  de- 
lighted in  discovering,  or  flattering  himself  he  had  discovered, 
the  hollow  full  of  dead  men's  bones  under  the  flowery  lawn  of 
seeming  goodness.  Nor  as  yet  had  he,  so  far  as  he  knew,  or  at 
least  was  prepared  to  allow,  ever  failed.  And  this  he  called 
the  study  of  human  nature,  and  quoted  Pope.  Truly,  next  to 
God,  the  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man  ;  but  how  shall  a 
man  that  knows  only  the  evil  in  himself,  nor  sees  it  hateful, 
read  the  thousandfold-compounded  heart  of  his  neighbor  ?    To 


MBS.  BEDMAIK  185 

rake  oyer  the  contents  of  an  ash-pit,  is  not  to  study  geology. 
There  were  motives  in  Eedmain's  own  being,  which  he  was  not 
merely  incapable  of  understanding,  but  incapable  of  seeing,  in- 
capable of  suspecting. 

The  game  had  for  him  all  the  pleasure  of  keenest  specula- 
tion ;  nor  that  alone,  for,  in  the  supposed  discovery  of  the  evil 
of  another,  he  felt  himself  vaguely  righteous. 

One  more  point  in  his  character  I  may  not  in  fairness  omit : 
he  had  naturally  a  strong  sense  of  justice  ;  and,  if  he  exercised 
it  but  little  in  some  of  the  relations  of  his  life,  he  was  none 
the  less  keenly  alive  to  his  own  claims  on  its  score  ;  for  chiefly 
he  cried  out  for  fair  play  on  behalf  of  those  who  were  wicked 
in  similar  fashion  to  himself.  But,  in  truth,  no  one  dealt  so 
hardly  with  Eedmain  as  his  own  conscience  at  such  times  when 
suffering  and  fear  had  awaked  it. 

So  much  for  a  portrait-sketch  of  the  man  to  whom  Morti- 
mer had  sold  his  daughter — such  was  the  man  whom  Hesper, 
entirely  aware  that  none  could  compel  her  to  marry  against  her 
will,  had,  partly  from  fear  of  her  father,  partly  from  moral 
laziness,  partly  from  reverence  for  the  Moloch  of  society,  whose 
priestess  was  her  mother,  vowed  to  love,  honor,  and  obey  !  In 
justice  to  her,  it  must  be  remembered,  however,  that  she  did 
riot  and  could  not  know  of  him  what  her  father  knew. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

MES.    EEDMAOT. 

In  the  autumn  the  Eedmains  went  to  Durnmelling  :  why 
they  did  so,  I  should  find  it  hard  to  say.  If,  when  a  child, 
Hesper  loved  either  of  her  parents,  the  experiences  of  later 
years  had  so  heaped  that  filial  affection  with  the  fallen  leaves 
of  dead  hopes  and  vanished  dreams,  that  there  was  now  no- 
thing in  her  heart  recognizable  to  herself  as  love  to  father  or 
mother.  She  always  behaved  to  them,  of  course,  with  perfect 
propriety ;  never  refused   any  small  request ;  never   showed 


186  MARY  MARSTON. 

resentment  "when  blamed — neyer  felt  any,  for  she  did  not  care 
enough  to  be  angry  or  sorry  that  father  or  mother  should  dis- 
approve. 

On  the  other  hand,  Lady  Margaret  saw  great  improvement 
in  her  daughter.  To  the  maternal  eye,  jealous  for  perfection, 
Hesper's  carriage  was  at  length  satisfactory.  It  was  cold,  and 
the  same  to  her  mother  as  to  every  one  else,  but  the  mother 
did  not  find  it  too  cold.  It  was  haughty,  even  repellent,  but 
by  no  means  in  the  mother's  eyes  repulsive.  Her  voice  came 
from  her  in  well-balanced  sentences,  sounding  as  if  they  had 
been  secretly  constructed  for  extempore  use,  like  the  points  of 
a  parliamentary  orator.  "  Marriage  has  done  everything  for 
her  ! "  said  Lady  Malice  to  herself  with  a  dignified  chuckle, 
and  dismissed  the  last  shadowy  remnant  of  maternal  regret  for 
her  part  in  the  transaction  of  her  marriage. 

She  never  saw  herself  in  the  wrong,  and  never  gave  herself 
the  least  trouble  to  be  in  the  right.  She  was  in  good  health, 
ate,  and  liked  to  eat ;  drank  her  glass  of  champagne,  and 
would  have  drunk  a  second,  but  for  her  complexion,  and  that 
it  sometimes  made  her  feel  ill,  which  was  the  only  thing,  after 
marrying  Mr.  Kedmain,  she  ever  felt  degrading.  Of  her  own 
worth  she  had  never  had  a  doubt,  and  she  had  none  yet :  how 
was  she  to  generate  one,  courted  wherever  she  went,  both  for 
her  own  beauty  and  her  husband's  wealth  ? 

To  her  father  she  was  as  stiff  and  proud  as  if  she  had  been 
a  maiden  aunt,  bent  on  destroying  what  expectations  from  her 
he  might  be  cherishing.  Who  will  blame  her  ?  He  had  done 
her  all  the  ill  he  could,  and  by  his  own  deed  she  was  beyond 
his  reach.  Nor  can  I  see  that  the  debt  she  owed  him  for  be- 
ing her  father  was  of  the  heaviest. 

Her  husband  was  again  out  of  health — certain  attacks  to 
which  he  was  subject  were  now  coming  more  frequently.  I  do 
not  imagine  his  wife  offered  many  prayers  for  his  restoration. 
Indeed,  she  never  prayed  for  the  thing  she  desired  ;  and,  while 
he  and  she  occupied  separate  rooms,  the  one  solitary  thing  she 
now  regarded  as  a  privilege,  how  could  she  pray  for  his  re- 
covery ? 

Greatly  contrary  to   Mr.    Eedmain's   unexpressed  desire, 


MRS  REDMAIN.  187 

Miss  Yolland  had  been  installed  as  Hesper's  cousin-companion. 
After  the  marriage,  she  ventured  to  unfold  a  little,  as  she  had 
promised,  but  what  there  was  yet  of  womanhood  in  Hesper 
had  shrunk  from  further  acquaintance  with  the  dimly  shadowed 
mysteries  of  Sepia's  story ;  and  Sepia,  than  whom  none  more 
sensitive  to  change  of  atmosphere,  had  instantly  closed  again  ; 
and  now  not  unfrequently  looked  and  spoke  like  one  feeling 
her  way.  The  only  life-principle  she  had,  so  far  as  I  know, 
was  to  get  from  the  moment  the  greatest  possible  enjoyment 
that  would  leave  the  way  clear  for  more  to  follow.  She  had 
not  been  in  his  house  a  week  before  Mr.  Kedmain  hated  her. 
He  was  something  given  to  hating  people  who  came  near  him, 
and  she  came  much  too  near.  She  was  by  no  means  so  differ- 
ent in  character  as  to  be  repulsive  to  him  ;  neither  was  she  so 
much  alike  as  to  be  tiresome  ;  their  designs  could  not  well 
clash,  for  she  was  a  woman  and  he  was  a  man  ;  if  she  had  not 
been  his  wife's  friend,  they  might,  perhaps,  have  got  on  to- 
gether better  than  well ;  but  the  two  were  such  as  must  either 
be  hand  in  glove  or  hate  each  other.  There  had  not,  how- 
ever, been  the  least  approach  to  rupture  between  them.  Mr. 
Eedmain,  indeed,  took  no  trouble  to  avoid  such  a  catastrophe, 
but  Sepia  was  far  too  wise  to  allow  even  the  dawn  of  such  a 
risk.  When  he  was  ill,  he  was,  if  possible,  more  rude  to  her 
than  to  every  one  else,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  mind  it  a  straw. 
Perhaps  she  knew  something  of  the  ways  of  such  gentlemen  as 
lose  their  manners  the  moment  they  are  ailing,  and  seem  to 
consider  a  headache  or  an  attack  of  indigestion  excuse  suffi- 
cient for  behaving  like  the  cad  they  scorn.  It  was  not  long, 
however,  before  he  began  to  take  in  her  a  very  real  interest, 
though  not  of  a  sort  it  would  have  made  her  comfortable  with 
him  to  know. 

Every  time  Mr.  Eedmain  had  an  attack,  the  baldness  on 
the  top  of  his  head  widened,  and  the  skin  of  his  face  tightened 
on  his  small,  neat  features  ;  his  long  arms  looked  longer  ;  his 
formerly  flat  back  rounded  yet  a  little  ;  and  his  temper  grew 
yet  more  curiously  spiteful.  Long  after  he  had  begun  to  re- 
cover, he  was  by  no  means  an  agreeable  companion.  Never- 
thelesss,  as  if  at  last,  though  late  in  the  day,  she  must  begin  to 


18S  MARY  MARSTON. 

teach  lier  daughter  the  duty  of  a  married  woman,  from  the 
moment  he  arrived,  taken  ill  on  the  "way,  Lady  Malice,  regard- 
less of  the  brusqueness  with  which  he  treated  her  from  the 
first,  devoted  herself  to  him  with  an  attention  she  had  neyer 
shown  her  husband.  She  was  the  only  one  who  manifested 
any  appearance  of  affection  for  him,  and  the  only  one  of  the 
family  for  whom,  in  return,  he  came  to  show  the  least  consid- 
eration. Bough  he  was,  even  to  her,  but  never,  except  when 
in  absolute  pain,  rude  as  to  everybody  in  the  house  besides. 
At  times,  one  might  have  almost  thought  he  stood  in  some 
little  awe  of  her.  Every  night,  after  his  man  was  gone,  she 
would  visit  him  to  see  that  he  was  left  comfortable,  would  tuck 
him  up  as  his  mother  might  have  done,  and  satisfy  herself  that 
the  night-light  was  shaded  from  his  eyes.  With  her  own  hands 
she  always  arranged  his  breakfast  on  the  tray,  nor  never  omitted 
taking  him  a  basin  of  soup  before  he  got  up  ;  and,  whatever  he 
may  have  concluded  concerning  her  motives,  he  gave  no  sign 
of  imagining  them  other  than  generous.  Perhaps  the  part  in 
him  which  had  never  had  the  opportunity  of  behaving  ill  to 
his  mother,  and  so  had  not  choked  up  its  channels  with  wrong, 
remained,  in  middle  age  and  illness,  capable  of  receiving  kind- 
ness. 

Hesper  saw  the  relation  between  them,  but  without  the 
least  pleasure  or  the  least  curiosity.  She  seemed  to  care  for 
nothing — except  the  keeping  of  her  back  straight.  What  could 
it  be,  inside  that  lovely  form,  that  gave  itself  pleasure  to  be, 
were  a  difficult  question  indeed.  The  bear  as  he  lies  in  his 
winter  nest,  sucking  his  paw,  has  no  doubt  his  rudimentary 
theories  of  life,  and  those  will  coincide  with  a  desire  for  its 
continuance ;  but  whether  what  either  the  lady  or  the  bear 
counts  the  good  of  life,  be  really  that  which  makes  either  de- 
sire its  continuance,  is  another  question.  Mere  life  without 
suffering  seems  enough  for  most  people,  but  I  do  not  think  it 
could  go  on  so  for  ever.  I  can  not  help  fancying  that,  but  for 
death,  utter  dreariness  would  at'  length  master  the  healthiest 
in  whom  the  true  life  has  not  begun  to  shine.  But  so  satisfy- 
ing is  the  mere  earthly  existence  to  some  at  present,  that  this 
remark  must  sound  to  them  bare  insanity. 


THE  MENIAL.  189 

Partly  out  of  compliment  to  Mr.  Eedmain,  the  Mortimers 
had  scarcely  a  visitor  ;  for  he  would  not  come  out  of  his  room 
when  he  knew  there  was  a  stranger  in  the  house.  Fond  of 
company  of  a  certain  kind  when  he  was  well,  he  could  not  en- 
dure an  unknown  face  when  he  was  ill.  He  told  Lady  Malice 
that  at  such  times  a  stranger  always  looked  a  devil  to  him. 
Hence  the  time  was  dull  for  everybody — dullest,  perhaps,  for 
Sepia,  who,  as  well  as  Eedmain,  had  a  few  things  that  required 
forgetting.  It  was  no  wonder,  then,  that  Hesper,  after  a  fort- 
night of  it,  should  think  once  more  of  the  young  woman  in 
the  draper's  shop  of  Testbridge.  One  morning,  in  consequence, 
she  ordered  her  brougham,  and  drove  to  the  town. 


CHAPTEE  XXIII. 

THE   MENIAL. 

Things  had  been  going  nowise  really  better  with  Mary, 
though  there  was  now  more  lull  and  less  storm  around  her.  The 
position  was  becoming  less  and  less  endurable  to  her,  and  she 
had  as  yet  no  glimmer  of  a  way  out  of  it.  Breath  of  genial 
air  never  blew  in  the  shop,  except  when  this  and  that  customer 
entered  it.  But  how  dear  the  dull  old  chapel  had  grown  ! 
Not  that  she  heard  anything  more  to  her  mind,  or  that  she 
paid  any  more  attention  to  what  was  said  ;  but  the  memory 
of  her  father  filled  the  place,  and  when  the  Bible  was  read, 
or  some  favorite  hymn  sung,  he  seemed  to  her  actually  pres- 
ent. And  might  not  love,  she  thought,  even  love  to  her,  be 
strong  enough  to  bring  him  from  the  gracious  freedom  of  the 
new  life,  back  to  the  house  of  bondage,  to  share  it  for  an  hour 
with  his  daughter  ? 

When  Hesper  entered,  she  was  disappointed  to  see  Mary  so 
much  changed.  But  when,  at  sight  of  her,  the  pale  face 
brightened,  and  a  faint,  rosy  flush  overspread  it  from  brow  to 
chin,  Mary  was  herself  again  as  Hesper  had  known  her ;  and 


190  MARY  MAESTON. 

the  radiance  of  her  own  presence,  reflected  from  Mary,  cast  a 
reflex  of  sunshine  into  the  February  of  Hesper's  heart  :  had 
Mary  known  how  long  it  was  since  such  a  smile  had  lighted 
the  face  she  so  much  admired,  hers  would  have  flushed  with 
a  profounder  pleasure.  Hesper  was  human  after  all,  though 
her  humanity  was  only  molluscous  as  yet,  and  it  is  not  in  the 
power  of  humanity  in  any  stage  of  development  to  hold  itself 
indifferent  to  the  pleasure  of  being  loved.  Also,  poor  as  is 
the  feeling  comparatively,  it  is  yet  a  reflex  of  love  itself — the 
shine  of  the  sun  in  a  rain-pool. 

She  walked  up  to  Mary,  holding  out  her  hand. 

"0  ma'am,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you!"  exclaimed  Mary, 
forgetting  her  manners  in  her  love. 

"  I,  too,  am  glad,"  drawled  Hesper,  genuinely,  though  with 
condescension.  "  I  hope  you  are  well.  I  can  not  say  you 
look  so." 

"  I  am  pretty  well,  thank  you,  ma'am,"  answered  Mary, 
flushing  afresh  :  not  much  anxiety  was  anywhere  expressed 
about  her  health  now,  except  by  Beenie,  who  mourned  over 
the  loss  of  her  plumpness,  and  told  her  if  she  did  not  eat  she 
would  soon  follow  her  poor  father. 

"  Come  and  have  a  drive  with  me,"  said  Hesper,  moved  by 
a  sudden  impulse  :  through  some  hidden  motion  of  sympathy, 
she  felt,  as  she  looked  at  her,  that  the  place  was  stuffy.  "  It 
will  do  you  good,"  she  went  on.  "You  are  too  much  in- 
doors.— And  the  ceiling  is  low,"  she  added,  looking  up. 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you,"  replied  Mary,  "but — I  don't 
think  I  could  quite  manage  it  to-day." 

She  looked  round  as  she  spoke.  There  were  not  many  cus- 
tomers ;  but  for  conscience'  sake  she  was  trying  hard  to  give  as 
little  ground  for  offense  as  possible. 

"Why  not  ?— If  I  were  to  ask  Mr.—" 

"If  you  really  wish  it,  ma'am,  I  will  venture  to  go  for 
half  an  hour.  There  is  no  occasion  to  speak  to  Mr.  Turnbull. 
Besides,  it  is  almost  dinner-time." 

"  Do,  then.  I  am  sure  you  will  eat  a  better  dinner  for 
having  had  a  little  fresh  air  first.  It  is  a  lovely  morning.  We 
will  drive  to  the  Eoman  camp  on  the  top  of  Clover-down." 


THE  MENIAL.  191 

"  I  shall  be  ready  in  two  minutes,"  said  Mary,  and  ran  from 
the  shop. 

As  she  passed  along  the  outside  of  his  counter  coming 
back,  she  stopped  and  told  Mr.  Turnbull  where  she  was  going. 
Instead  of  answering  her,  he  turned  himself  toward  Mrs. 
Eedmain,  and  went  through  a  series  of  bows  and  smiles  re- 
cognizant  of  favor,  which  she  did  not  choose  to  see.  She 
turned  and  walked  from  the  shop,  got  into  the  brougham,  and 
made  room  for  Mary  at  her  side. 

But,  although  the  drive  was  a  lovely  one,  and  the  view  from 
either  window  delightful,  and  to  Mary  it  was  like  getting  out 
of  a  tomb  to  leave  the  shop  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  she  saw 
little  of  the  sweet  country  on  any  side,  so  much  occupied  was 
she  with  Hesper.  Ere  they  stopped  again  at  the  shop-door, 
the  two  young  women  were  nearer  being  friends  than  Hesper 
had  ever  been  with  any  one.  The  sleepy  heart  in  her  was  not 
yet  dead,  but  capable  still  of  the  pleasure  of  showing  sweet 
condescension  and  gentle  patronage  to  one  who  admired  her, 
and  was  herself  agreeable.  To  herself  she  justified  her  kind- 
ness to  Mary  with  the  remark  that  the  young  woman  deserved 
encouragement — whatever  that  might  mean — because  she  was 
so  anxious  to  improve  herself ! — a  duty  Hesper  could  recognize 
in  another. 

As  they  went,  Mary  told  her  something  of  her  miserable 
relations  with  the  Turnbulls ;  and,  as  they  returned,  Hesper 
actually — this  time  with  perfect  seriousness — proposed  that  she 
should  give  up  business,  and  live  with  her. 

Nor  was  this,  the  ridiculous  thing  it  may  at  first  sight  appear 
to  not  a  few  of  my  readers .  It  arose  from  what  was  almost  the 
first  movement  in  the  direction  of  genuine  friendship  Hesper 
had  ever  felt.  She  had  been  familiar  in  her  time  with  a  good 
many,  but  familiarity  is  not  friendship,  and  may  or  may  not 
exist  along  with  it.  Some,  who  would  scorn  the  idea  of  a 
friendship  with  such  as  Mary,  will  be  familiar  enough  with 
maids  as  selfish  as  themselves,  and  part  from  them — no — part 
with  them,  the  next  day,  or  the  next  hour,  with  never  a  twinge 
of  regret.  Of  this,  Hesper  Avas  as  capable  as  any  ;  but  friend- 
ship is  its  own  justification,  and  she  felt  no  horror  at  the  new 


192  MARY  MARSTOK 

motion  of  her  heart.  At  the  same  time  she  did  not  recognize 
it  as  friendship,  and,  had  she  suspected  Mary  of  regarding 
their  possible  relation  in  that  light,  she  would  have  dismissed 
her  pride,  perhaps  contempt.  Nevertheless  the  sorely  whelmed 
divine  thing  in  her  had  uttered  a  feeble  sigh  of  incipient  long- 
ing after  the  real ;  Mary  had  begun  to  draw  out  the  love  in 
her ;  while  her  conventional  judgment  justified  the  proposed 
extraordinary  proceeding  with  the  argument  of  the  endless 
advantages  to  result  from  having  in  the  house,  devoted  to  her 
wishes,  a  young  woman  with  an  absolute  genius  for  dress- 
making ;  one  capable  not  only  of  originating  in  that  foremost 
of  arts,  but,  no  doubt,  with  a  little  experience,  of  carrying 
out  also  with  her  own  hands  the  ideas  of  her  mistress.  No 
more  would  she  have  to  send  for  the  dressmaker  on  every 
smallest  necessity  !  No  more  must  she  postpone  confidence  in 
her  appearance,  that  was,  in  herself,  until  Sepia,  dressed, 
should  be  at  leisure  to  look  her  over  !  Never  yet  had  she  found 
herself  the  best  dressed  in  a  room  :  now  there  would  be  hope  ! 

Nothing,  however,  was  clear  in  her  mind  as  to  the  position 
she  would  have  Mary  occupy.  She  had  a  vague  feeling  that 
one  like  her  ought  not  to  be  expected  to  undertake  things  be- 
fitting such  women  as  her  maid  Folter  ;  for  between  Mary  and 
Folter  there  was,  she  saw,  less  room  for  comparison  than  be- 
tween Folter  and  a  naked  Hottentot.  She  was  incapable,  at 
the  same  time,  of  seeing  that,  in  the  eyes  of  certain  courtiers 
of  a  high  kingdom,  not  much  known  to  the  world  of  fashion, 
but  not  the  less  judges  of  the  beautiful,  there  was  a  far  greater 
difference  between  Mary  and  herself  than  between  herself  and 
her  maid,  or  between  her  maid  and  the  Hottentot.  For,  while 
the  said  beholders  could  hardly  have  been  astonished  at  Hes- 
per's  marrying  Mr.  Eedmain,  there  would,  had  Mary  done  such 
a  thing,  have  been  dismay  and  a  hanging  of  the  head  before 
the  face  of  her  Father  in  heaven. 

"  Come  and  live  with  me,  Miss  Marston,"  said  Hesper ;  but 
it  was  with  a  laugh,  and  that  light  touch  of  the  tongue  which 
suggests  but  a  flying  fancy  spoken  but  for  the  sake  of  the  pre- 
posterous ;  while  Mary,  not  forgetting  she  had  heard  the  same 
thing  once  before,  heard  it  with  a  smile,  and  had  no  rejoinder 


THE  MENIAL.  193 

ready  ;  whereupon  Hesper,  who  was,  in  reality,  feeling  her  way, 
ventured  a  little  more  seriousness. 

"  I  should  never  ask  you  to  do  anything  you  would  not  like," 
she  said. 

"I  don't  think  you  could,"  answered  Mary.  "There  are 
more  things  I  should  like  to  do  for  you  than  you  would  think 
to  ask. — In  fact,"  she  added,  looking  round  with  a  loving 
smile,  "I  don't  know  what  I  shouldn't  like  to  do  for  you." 

"My  meaning  was,  that,  as  a  thing  of  course,  I  should 
never  ask  you  to  do  anything  menial,"  explained  Hesper,  ven- 
turing a  little  further  still,  and  now  speaking  in  a  tone  perfectly 
matter-of-fact. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  intend  by  menial,"  returned 
Mary. 

Hesper  thought  it  not  unnatural  she  should  not  be  familiar 
with  the  word,  and  proceeded  to  explain  it  as  well  as  she  could. 
That  seeming  ignorance  may  be  the  consequence  of  more  knowl- 
edge, she  had  yet  to  learn. 

"Menial,  don't  you  know  ?"  she  said,  "is  what  you  give 
servants  to  do." 

But  therewith  she  remembered  that  Mary's  help  in  certain 
things  wherein  her  maid's  incapacity  was  harrowing,  was  one 
of  the  hopes  she  mainly  cherished  in  making  her  proposal  : 
that  definition  of  menial  would  hardly  do. 

"I  mean — I  mean,"  she  resumed,  with  a  little  embarrass- 
ment, a  rare  thing  with  her,  " — things  like — like — cleaning 
one's  shoes,  don't  you  know  ? — or  brushing  your  hair." 

Mary  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Let  me  come  to  you  to-morrow  morning,"  she  said,  "and 
I  will  brush  your  hair  that  you  will  want  me  to  come  again  the 
next  day.  You  beautiful  creature  !  whose  hands  would  not  be 
honored  to  handle  such  stuff  as  that  ?" 

As  she  spoke,  she  took  in  her  fingers  a  little  stray  drift  from 
the  masses  of  golden  twilight  that  crowned  one  of  the  loveliest 
temples  in  which  the  Holy  Ghost  had  not  yet  come  to  dwell. 

"If  cleaning  your  shoes  be  menial,  brushing  your  hair  must 
be  royal,"  she  added. 

Hesper's  heart  was  touched ;  and  if  at  the  same  time  her 

9 


194  MART  MARSTOK 

self  was  flattered,  the  flattery  was  mingled  with  its  best  anti- 
dote— love. 

"Do  you  really  mean,"  she  said,  "yon  would  not  mind 
doing  such  things  for  me  ? — Of  course  I  should  not  be  exacting." 

She  laughed  again,  afraid  of  showing  herself  too  much  in 
earnest  before  she  was  sure  of  Mary. 

"  You  would  not  ask  me  to  do  anything  menial  ?  "  said  Mary, 
archly. 

"I  dare  not  promise,"  said  Hesper,  in  tone  responsive. 
"  How  could  I  help  it,  if  I  saw  you  longing  to  do  what  I  was 
longing  to  have  you  do  ?  "  she  added,  growing  more  and  more 
natural. 

"I  would  no  more  mind  cleaning  your  boots  than  my  own," 
said  Mary. 

"  But  I  should  not  like  to  clean  my  own  boots,"  rejoined 
Hesper. 

"JSTo  more  should  I,  except  it  had  to  be  done.  Even  then 
I  would  much  rather  not,"  returned  Mary,  "  for  cleaning  my 
own  would  not  interest  me.  To  clean  yours  would.  Still  I 
would  rather  not,  for  the  time  might  be  put  to  better  use — 
except  always  it  were  necessary,  and  then,  of  course,  it  couldn't. 
But  as  to  anything  degrading  in  it,  I  scorn  the  idea.  I  heard 
my  father  once  say  that,  to  look  down  on  those  who  have  to  do 
such  things  may  be  to  despise  them  for  just  the  one  honorable 
thing  about  them. — Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  understand  by  the 
wor&meiiial?  You  know  it  has  come  to  have  a  disagreeable 
taste  about  it,  though  at  first  it  only  meant,  as  you  say,  some- 
thing that  fell  to  the  duty  of  attendants." 

"Do  tell  me,"  answered  Hesper,  with  careless  permis- 
sion. 

"I  did  not  find  it  out  myself,"  said  Mary.  "  My  father 
taught  me.  He  was  a  wise  as  well  as  a  good  man,  Mrs.  Bed- 
main.  " 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Hesper,  with  the  ordinary  indifference  of  fash- 
ionable people  to  what  an  inferior  may  imagine  worth  telling 
them. 

"He  said,"  persisted  Mary,  notwithstanding,  "that  it  is 
menial  to  undertake  anything  you  think  beneath  you  for  the 


THE  MENIAL.  195 

sake  of  money ;  and  still  more  menial,  having  undertaken  it, 
not  to  do  it  as  well  as  possible." 

"  That  would  make  out  a  good  deal  more  of  the  menial  in 
the  world  than  is  commonly  supposed,"  laughed  Hesper.  "I 
wonder  who  would  do  anything  for  you  if  you  didn't  pay  them 
— one  way  or  another  !  " 

"  I've  taken  my  father's  shoes  out  of  Beenie's  hands  many 
a  time,"  said  Mary,  "and  finished  them  myself,  just  for  the 
pleasure  of  making  them  shine  for  Mm. " 

"Ke-a-ally  !"  drawled  Hesper,  and  set  out  for  the  conclu- 
sion that  after  all  it  was  no  such  great  compliment  the  young 
woman  had  paid  her  in  wanting  to  brush  her  hair.  Evidently 
she  had  a  taste  for  low  things  ! — was  naturally  menial ! — would 
do  as  much  for  her  own  father  as  for  a  lady  like  her  !  But  the 
light  in  Mary's  eyes  checked  her. 

"Any  service  done  without  love,  whatever  it  be,"  resumed 
Mary,  "is  slavery — neither  more  nor  less.  It  can  not  be  any- 
thing else.  So,  you  see,  most  slaves  are  made  slaves  by  them- 
selves ;  and  that  is  what  makes  me  doubtful  whether  I  ought 
to  go  on  serving  in  the  shop  ;  for,  as  far  as  the  Turnbulls  are 
concerned,  I  have  no  pleasure  in  it ;  I  am  only  helping  them 
to  make  money,  not  doing  them  any  good." 

"  Why  do  you  not  give  it  up  at  once  then  ?  "  asked  Hes- 
per. 

"Because  I  like  serving  the  customers.  They  were  my  fa- 
ther's customers  ;  and  I  have  learned  so  much  from  having  to 
wait  on  them  ! " 

"Well,  now,"  said  Hesper,  with  a  rush  for  the  goal,  "if  you 
will  come  to  me,  I  will  make  you  comfortable ;  and  you  shall 
do  just  as  much  or  as  little  as  you  please." 

"What  will  your  maid  think  ?  "  suggested  Mary.  "  If  I  am 
to  do  what  I  please,  she  will  soon  find  me  trespassing  on  her 
domain. " 

"  I  never  trouble  myself  about  what  my  servants  think," 
said  Hesper. 

"  But  it  might  hurt  her,  you  know — to  be  paid  to  do  a  thing, 
and  then  not  allowed  to  do  it." 

"  She  may  take  herself  away,  then.     I  had  not  thought  of 


196  MARY  MARSTON. 

parting  with  her,  but  I  should  not  he  at  all  sorry  if  she  went. 
She  would  be  no  loss  to  me." 

"Why  should  you  keep  her,  then  ?" 

"  Because  one  is  just  as  good — and  as  bad  as  another.  She 
knows  my  ways,  and  I  prefer  not  having  to  break  in  a  new  one. 
It  is  a  bore  to  have  to  say  how  you  like  everything  done." 

"But  you  are  speaking  now  as  if  you  meant  it,"  said  Mary, 
waking  up  to  the  fact  that  Hesper's  tone  was  of  business,  and 
she  no  longer  seemed  half  playing  with  the  proposal.  "Do 
you  mean  you  want  me  to  come  and  live  with  you  ?  " 

.  "Indeed,  I  do,"  answered  Hesper,  emphatically.  "You 
shall  have  a  room  close  to  my  bedroom,  and  there  you  shall  do 
as  you  like  all  day  long  ;  and,  when  I  want  you,  I  dare  say  you 
will  come." 

"Fast  enough,"  said  Mary,  cheerily,  as  if  all  was  settled. 
In  contrast  with  her  present  surroundings,  the  prospect  was 
more  than  attractive.  " — But  would  you  let  me  have  my 
piano  ?  "  she  asked,  with  sudden  apprehension. 

"  You  shall  have  my  grand  piano  always  when  I  am  out, 
which  will  be  every  night  in  the  season,  I  dare  say.  That  will 
give  you  plenty  of  practice  ;  and  you  will  be  able  to  have  the 
best  of  lessons.  And  think  of  the  concerts  and  oratorios  you 
will  go  to  ! " 

•As  she  spoke,  the  carriage  drew  up  at  the  door  of  the  shop, 
and  Mary  took  her  leave.  Hesper  accepted  her  acknowledg- 
ments in  the  proper  style  of  a  benefactress,  and  returned  her 
good-by  kindly.     But  not  yet  did  she  shake  hands  with  her. 

Some  of  my  readers  may  wonder  that  Mary  should  for  a 
moment  dream  of  giving  up  what  they  would  call  her  inde- 
pendence ;  for  was  she  not  on  her  own  ground  in  the  shop  of 
which  she  was  a  proprietor  ?  and  was  the  change  proposed,  by 
whatever  name  it  might  be  called,  anything  other  than  service  ? 
But  they  are  outside  it,  and  Mary  was  in  it,  and  knew  how  lit- 
tle such  an  independence  was  worth  the  name.  Almost  every- 
thing about  the  shop  had  altered  in  its  aspect  to  her.  The 
very  air  she  breathed  in  it  seemed  slavish.  Nor  was  the  change 
in  her.  The  whole  thing  was  growing  more  and  more  sordid, 
for  now — save  for  her  part— the  one  spirit  ruled  it  entirely. 


THE  MENIAL.  197 

The  work  had  therefore  more  or  less  grown  a  drudgery  to  her. 
The  spirit  of  gain  was  in  full  blast,  and  whoever  did  not  trim 
his  sails  to  it  was  in  danger  of  finding  it  rough  weather.  No 
longer  could  she,  without  offense,  and  consequent  disturbance 
of  spirit,  arrange  her  attendance  as  she  pleased,  or  have  the 
same  time  for  reading  as  before.  She  could  encounter  black 
looks,  but  she  could  not  well  live  with  them  ;  and  how  was  she 
to  continue  the  servant  of  such  ends  as  were  now  exclusively 
acknowledged  in  the  place  ?  The  proposal  of  Mrs.  Eedmain 
stood  in  advantageous  contrast  to  this  treadmill- work.  In  her 
house  she  would  be  called  only  to  the  ministrations  of  love, 
and  would  have  plenty  of  time  for  books  and  music,  with  a 
thousand  means  of  growth  unapproachable  in  Testbridge.  All 
the  slavery  lay  in  the  shop,  all  the  freedom  in  the  personal  ser- 
vice. But  she  strove  hard  to  suppress  anxiety,  for  she  saw 
that,  of  all  poverty-stricken  contradictions,  a  Christian  with 
little  faith  is  the  worst. 

The  chief  attraction  to  her,  however,  was  simply  Hesper 
herself.  She  had  fallen  in  love  with  her — I  hardly  know  how 
otherwise  to  describe  the  current  with  which  her  being  set 
toward  her.  Few  hearts  are  capable  of  loving  as  she  loved. 
It  was  not  merely  that  she  saw  in  Hesper  a  grand  creature,  and 
lovely  to  look  upon,  or  that  one  so  much  her  superior  in  posi- 
tion showed  such  a  liking  for  herself ;  she  saw  in  her  one  she 
could  help,  one  at  least  who  sorely  needed  help,  for  she  seemed 
to  know  nothing  of  what  made  life  worth  having — one  who 
had  done,  and  must  yet  be  capable  of  doing,  things  degrading 
to  the  humanity  of  womanhood.  Without  the  hope  of  helping 
in  the  highest  sense,  Mary  could  not  have  taken  up  her  abode 
in  such  a  house  as  Mrs.  Eedmain's.  No  outward  service  of  any 
kind,  even  to  the  sick,  was  to  her  service  enough  to  choose  ; 
were  it  laid  upon  her,  she  would  hasten  to  it ;  for  necessity  is 
the  push,  gentle  or  strong,  as  the  man  is  more  or  less  obedient, 
by  which  God  sends  him  into  the  path  he  would  have  him 
take.  But  to  help  to  the  birth  of  a  beautiful  Psyche,  envel- 
oped all  in  the  gummy  cerecloths  of  its  chrysalis,  not  yet 
aware,  even,  that  it  must  get  out  of  them,  and  spread  great 
wings  to  the  sunny  wind  of  God — that  was  a  thing  for  which 


198  MARY  MARSTOK 

the  holiest  of  saints  might  well  take  a  servant's  place — the 
thing  for  which  the  Lord  of  life  had  done  it  before  him.  To 
help  out  such  a  lovely  sister — how  Hesper  would  have  drawn 
herself  up  at  the  word  !  it  is  mine,  not  Mary's — as  she  would 
be  when  no  longer  holden  of  death,  but  her  real  self,  the  self 
God  meant  her  to  be  when  he  began  making  her,  would  indeed 
be  a  thing  worth  having  lived  for !  Between  the  ordinarily 
benevolent  woman  and  Mary  Marston,  there  was  about  as  great 
a  difference  as  between  the  fashionable  church-goer  and  Cath- 
erine of  Siena.  She  would  be  Hesper's  servant  that  she 
might  gain  Hesper.  I  would  not  have  her  therefore  wondered 
at  as  a  marvel  of  humility.  She  was  simply  a  young  woman 
who  believed  that  the  man  called  Jesus  Christ  is  a  real  person, 
such  as  those  represent  him  who  profess  to  have  known  him ; 
and  she  therefore  believed  the  man  himself — believed  that, 
when  he  said  a  thing,  he  entirely  meant  it,  knowing  it  to  be 
true  ;  believed,  therefore,  that  she  had  no  choice  but  do  as  he 
told  her.  That  man  was  the  servant  of  all ;  therefore,  to  re- 
gard any  honest  service  as  degrading  would  be,  she  saw,  to 
deny  Christ,  to  call  the  life  of  creation's  hero  a  disgrace .  Nor 
was  he  the  first  servant ;  he  did  not  of  himself  choose  his  life  ; 
the  Father  gave  it  him  to  live — sent  him  to  be  a  servant,  be- 
cause he,  the  Father,  is  the  first  and  greatest  servant  of  all. 
He  gives  it  to  one  to  serve  as  the  rich,  can,  to  another  as  the 
poor  must.  The  only  disgrace,  whether  of  the  counting-house, 
the  shop,  or  the  family,  is  to  think  the  service  degrading.  If 
it  be  such,  why  not  sit  down  and  starve  rather  than  do  it  ? 
No  man  has  a  right  to  disgrace  himself.  Starve,  I  say  ;  the  world 
will  lose  nothing  in  you,  for  you  are  its  disgrace,  who  count 
service  degrading.  You  are  much  too  grand  people  for  what 
your  Maker  requires  of  you,  and  does  himself,  and  yet  you  do 
it  after  a  fashion,  because  you  like  to  eat  and  go  warm.  You 
would  take  rank  in  the  kingdom  of  hell,  not  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.  But  obedient  love,  learned  by  the  meanest  Abigail, 
will  make  of  her  an  angel  of  ministration,  such  a  one  as  he  who 
came  to  Peter  in  the  prison,  at  whose  touch  the  fetters  fell 
from  the  limbs  of  the  apostle. 

"  What  forced,  overdriven,  Utopian  stuff !    A  kingdom  al- 


THE  MENIAL.  199 

ways  coming,  and  never  come  !  I  hold  by  what  is.  This  solid, 
plowable  earth  will  serve  my  turn.  My  business  is  what  I  can 
find  in  the  oyster." 

I  hear  you,  friend.  Your  answer  will  come  whence  you  do 
not  look  for  it.  For  some,  their  only  answer  will  be  the  coining 
of  that  which  they  deny  ;  and  the  Presence  will  be  a  very  dif- 
ferent thing  to  those  who  desire  it  and  those  who  do  not.  In 
the  mean  time,  if  we  are  not  yet  able  to  serve  like  God  .from 
pure  love,  let  us  do  it  because  it  is  his  way ;  so  shall  we  come 
to  do  it  from  pure  love  also. 

The  very  next  morning,  as  she  called  it — that  is,  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon — Hesper  again  entered  the  shop,  and, 
to  the  surprise  and  annoyance  of  the  master  of  it,  was  taken 
by  Mary  through  the  counter  and  into  the  house.  "What  a 
false  impression,"  thought  the  great  man,  "will  it  give  of  the 
way  we  live,  to  see  the  Marstons'  shabby  parlor  in  a  ware- 
house ! "  But  he  would  have  been  more  astonished  and  more 
annoyed  still,  had  the  deafening  masses  of  soft  goods  that 
filled  the  house  permitted  him  to  hear  through  them  what 
passed  between  the  two.  Before  they  came  down,  Mary  had 
accepted  a  position  in  Mrs.  Redmain's  house,  if  that  may  be 
called  a  position  which  was  so  undefined  ;  and  Hesper  had 
promised  that  she  would  not  mention  the  matter.  For  Mary 
judged  Mr.  Turnbull  would  be  too  glad  to  get  rid  of  her  to 
mind  how  brief  the  notice  she  gave  him,  and  she  would  rather 
not  undergo  the  remarks  that  were  sure  to  be  made  in  con- 
tempt of  her  scheme.  She  counted  it  only  fair,  however,  to 
let  him  know  that  she  intended  giving  up  her  place  behind 
the  counter,  hinting  that,  as  she  meant  to  leave  when  it  suited 
her  without  further  warning,  it  would  be  well  to  look  out  at 
once  for  one  to  take  her  place. 

As  to  her  money  in  the  business,  she  scarcely  thought  of  it, 
and  said  nothing  about  it,  believing  it  as  safe  as  in  the  bank. 
It  was  in  the  power  of  a  dishonest  man  who  prided  himself  on 
his  honesty — the  worst  kind  of  rogue  in  the  creation  ;  but  she 
had  not  yet  learned  to  think  of  him  as  a  dishonest  man — only 
as  a  greedy  one — and  the  money  had  been  there  ever  since  she 
had  heard  of  money. 


200  MARY  MARSTOK 

Mr.  Turnbull  was  so  astonished  by  her  communication 
that,  not  seeing  at  once  how  the  change  was  likely  to  affect 
him,  he  held  his  peace — with  the  cunning  pretense  that  his  si- 
lence arose  from  anger.  His  first  feeling  was  of  pleasure,  but 
the  man  of  business  must  take  care  how  he  shows  himself 
pleased.  On  reflection,  he  continued  pleased  ;  for,  as  they  did 
not  seem  likely  to  succeed  in  securing  Mary  in  the  way  they  had 
wishe.d,  the  next  best  thing  certainly  would  be  to  get  rid  of 
her.  Perhaps,  indeed,  it  was  the  very  best  thing  ;  for  it  would 
be  easy  to  get  George  a  wife  more  suitable  to  the  position  of  his 
family  than  a  little  canting  dissenter,  and  her  money  would  be 
in  their  hands  all  the  same  ;  while,  once  clear  of  her  haunting 
cat-eyes,  ready  to  pounce  upon  whatever  her  soft-headed  father 
had  taught  her  was  wicked,  he  could  do  twice  the  business. 
But,  while  he  continued  pleased,  he  continued  careful  not  to 
show  his  satisfaction,  for  she  would  then  go  smelling  about  for 
the  cause  !  During  three  whole  days,  therefore,  he  never  spoke 
to  her.  On  the  fourth,  he  spoke  as  if  nothing  had  ever  been 
amiss  between  them,  and  showed  some  interest  in  her  further 
intentions.  But  Mary,  in  the  straightforward  manner  peculiar 
to  herself,  told  him  she  preferred  not  speaking  of  them  at 
present ;  whereupon  the  cunning  man  concluded  that  she 
wanted  a  place  in  another  shop,  and  was  on  the  outlook — pre- 
pared to  leave  the  moment  one  should  turn  up. 

She  asked  him  one  day  whether  he  had  yet  found  a  person 
to  take  her  place. 

"  Time  enough  for  that,"  he  answered.  "  You're  not  gone 
yet." 

"As  you  please,  Mr.  Turnbull,"  said  Mary.  "It  was 
merely  that  I  should  be  sorry  to  leave  you  without  sufficient 
help  in  the  shop." 

"And /should  be  sorry,"  rejoined  Turnbull,  "that  Miss 
Marston  should  fancy  herself  indispensable  to  the  business  she 
turned  her  back  upon." 

From  that  moment,  the  restraint  he  had  for  the  last  week 
or  two  laid  upon  himself  thus  broken  through,  he  never  spoke 
to  her  except  with  such  rudeness  that  she  no  longer  ventured 
to  address  him  even  on  shop-business ;  and  all  the  people  in 


MRS.  REDMAIN'S  DRAWING-ROOM.  201 

the  place,  George  included,  following  the  example  so  plainly- 
set  them,  she  felt,  when,  at  last,  in  the  month  of  November,  a 
letter  from  Hesper  heralded  the  hour  of  her  deliverance,  that 
to  take  any  formal  leave  would  he  but  to  expose  herself  to  in- 
dignity. She  therefore  merely  told  Turnbull,  one  evening  as 
he  left  the  shop,  that  she  would  not  be  there  in  the  morning, 
and  was  gone  from  Testbridge  before  it  was  opened  the  next 
day. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MKS.    EEDJIAIN'S   DKAWIKG-KOOM. 

A  pew  years  ago,  a  London  drawing-room  was  seldom 
beautiful ;  but  size  is  always  something,  and,  if  Mrs.  Redmain's 
had  not  harmony,  it  had  gilding — a  regular  upholsterer's  draw- 
ing-room it  was,  on  which  about  as  much  taste  had  been  ex- 
pended as  on  the  fattening  of  a  prize-pig.  Happily  there  is  as 
little  need  as  temptation  to  give  any  description  of  it,  with  its 
sheets  of  glass  and  steel,  its  lace  curtains,  crude-colored  walls 
and  floor  and  couches,  and  glittering  chandeliers  of  a  thousand 
prisms.  Everybody  knows  the  kind  of  room — a  huddle  of  the 
chimera  ambition  wallowing  in  the  chaos  of  the  commonplace 
— no  miniature  world  of  harmonious  abiding.  The  only  in- 
teresting thing  in  it  was,  that  on  all  sides  were  doors,  which 
must  lead  out  of  it,  and  might  lead  to  a  better  place. 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  of  a  November  morning — more 
like  one  in  March.  There  might  be  a  thick  fog  before  the 
evening,  but  now  the  sun  was  shining  like  a  brilliant  lump  of 
ice — so  inimical  to  heat,  apparently,  that  a  servant  had  just 
dropped  the  Venetian  blind  of  one  of  the  windows  to  shut  his 
basilisk-gaze  from  the  sickening  fire,  which  was  now  rapidly 
recovering.  Betwixt  the  cold  sun  and  the  hard  earth,  a  dust- 
befogged  wind,  plainly  borrowed  from  March,  was  sweeping 
the  street. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Redmain  had  returned  to  town  thus  early 
because  their  country-place  was  in  Cornwall,  and  there  Mr. 


202  MART  MARST02T. 

Eedmain  was  too  far  from  his  physician.  He  was  now  consid- 
erably better,  however,  and  had  begun  to  go  about  again,  for 
the  weather  did  not  yet  affect  him  much.  He  was  now  in  his 
study,  as  it  was  called,  where  he  generally  had  his  breakfast 
alone.  Mrs.  Eedmain  always  had  hers  in  bed,  as  often  with  a 
new  novel  as  she  could,  of  which  her  maid  cut  the  leaves,  and 
skimmed  the  cream.  But  now  she  was  descending  the  stair, 
straight  as  a  Greek  goddess,  and  about  as  cold  as  the  marble 
she  is  made  of — mentally  rigid,  morally  imperturbable,  and 
vacant  of  countenance  to  a  degree  hardly  equaled  by  the  most 
ordinary  of  goddesses.  She  entered  the  drawing-room  with  a 
slow,  careless,  yet  stately  step,  which  belonged  to  her,  I  can 
not  say  by  nature,  for  it  was  not  natural,  but  by  ancestry.  She 
walked  to  the  chimney,  seated  herself  in  a  low,  soft,  shiny  chair 
almost  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  gazed  listlessly  into  the  fire.  In 
a  minute  she  rose  and  rang  the  bell. 

"Send  my. maid,  and  shut  the  door,"  she  said. 

The  woman  came. 

"Has  Miss  Yolland  left  her  room  yet  ?"  she  asked. 

".'No,  ma'am." 

"  Let  her  know  I  am  in  the  drawing-room." 

This  said,  she  resumed  her  fire-gazing. 

There  was  not  much  to  see  in  the  fire,  for  the  fire  is  but  a 
reflector,  and  there  was  not  much  behind  the  eyes  that  looked 
into  it  for  that  fire  to  reflect.  Hesper  was  no  dreamer — the 
more  was  the  pity,  for  dreams  are  often  the  stuff  out  of  which 
actions  are  made.  Had  she  been  a  truer  woman,  she  might 
have  been  a  dreamer,  but  where  was  the  space  for  dreaming  in 
a  life  like  hers,  without  heaven,  therefore  without  horizon, 
with  so  much  room  for  desiring,  and  so  little  room  for  hope  ? 
The  buz  that  greeted  her  entrance  of  a  drawing-room,  was  the 
chief  joy  she  knew ;  to  inhabit  her  well-dressed  body  in  the 
presence  of  other  well-dressed  bodies,  her  highest  notion  of 
existence.  And  even  upon  these  hung  ever  as  an  abating  fog 
the  consciousness  of  having  a  husband.  I  can  not  say  she  was 
tired  of  marriage,  for  she  had  loathed  her  marriage  from  the 
first,  and  had  not  found  it  at  all  better  than  her  expectation  : 
she  had  been  too  ignorant  to  forebode  half  its  horrors. 


MRS.  REDMAIN'S  DRAWING-ROOM.  203 

Education  she  had  had  but  little  that  was  worth  the  name, 
for  she  had  never  been  set  growing ;  and  now,  although  well 
endowed  by  nature,  she  was  gradually  becoming  stupid.  Peo- 
ple who  haye  plenty  of  money,  and  neither  hope  nor  aspiration, 
must  become  stupid,  except  indeed  they  hate,  and  then  for  a 
time  the  devil  in  them  will  make  them  a  sort  of  clever. 

Miss  Yolland  came  undulating.  No  kiss,  no  greeting  what- 
ever passed  between  the  ladies.  Sepia  began  at  once  to  re- 
arrange a  few  hot -house  flowers  on  the  mantel-piece,  looking 
herself  much  like  some  dark  flower  painted  in  an  old  mis- 
sal. 

"This  day  twelve  months  !  "  said  Hesper. 

"I  know,"  returned  Sepia. 

"If  one  could  die  without  pain,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
come  after  ! "  said  Hesper.     "  What  a  tiresome  dream  it  is  ! " 

"Dream,  or  nightmare,  or  what  you  will,  you  had  better 
get  all  you  can  out  of  it  before  you  break  it,"  said  Sepia. 

"  You  seem  to  think  it  worth  keeping  ! "  yawned  Hesper. 

Sepia  smiled,  with  her  face  to  the  glass,  in  which  she  saw 
the  face  of  her  cousin  with  her  eyes  on  the  fire  ;  but  she  made 
no  answer.     Hesper  went  on. 

"Ah  !"  she  said,  "your  story  is  not  mine.  You  are  free  ; 
I  am  a  slave.     You  are  alive  ;  I  am  in  my  coffin." 

"That's  marriage,"  said  Sepia,  dryly. 

"It  would  not  matter  much,"  continued  Hesper,  "if  you 
could  have  your  coffin  to  yourself  ;  but  when  you  have  to  share 
it — ugh  ! " 

"If  I  were  you,  then,"  said  Sepia,  "I  would  not  lie  still ; 
I  would  get  up  and  bite — I  mean,  be  a  vampire." 

Hesper  did  not  answer.  Sepia  turned  from  the  mirror, 
looked  at  her,  and  burst  into  a  laugh — at  least,  the  sound  she 
made  had  all  the  elements  of  a  laugh — except  the  merriment. 

"Now  really,  Hesper,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self," she  cried.  "You  to  put  on  the  pelican  and  the  sparrow, 
with  all  the  world  before  you,  and  all  the  men  in  it  at  your 
feet ! " 

"A  pack  of  fools!"  remarked  Hesper,  with  a  calmness 
which  in  itself  was  scorn. 


204  MART  MARSTOF. 

"I  don't  deny  it — but  amusing  fools — you  must  allow 
that!" 

"They  don't  amuse  me." 

"That's  your  fault:  you  won't  be  amused.  The  more 
foolish  they  are,  the  more  amusing  I  find  them." 

"I  am  sick  of  it  all.  Nothing  amuses  me.  How  can  it, 
when  there  is  nothing  behind  it  ?  You  can't  live  on  amuse- 
ment. It  is  the  froth  on  water  an  inch  deep,  and  then  the 
mud!" 

"  I  declare,  misery  makes  a  poetess  of  you  !  But  as  to  the 
mud,  I  don't  mind  a  little  mud.  It  is  only  dirt,  and  has  its 
part  in  the  inevitable  peck,  I  hope." 

"/don't  mind  mud  so  long  as  you  can  keep  out  of  it.  But 
when  one  is  over  head  and  ears  in  it,  I  should  like  to  know 
what  life  is  worth,"  said  Hesper,  heedless  that  the  mud  was  of 
her  own  making.  "  I  declare,  Sepia,"  she  went  on,  drawling 
the  declaration,  "if  I  were  to  be  asked  whether  I  would  go  on 
or  not — " 

"You  would  ask  a  little  time  to  make  up  your  mind, 
Hesper,  I  fancy,"  suggested  Sepia,  for  Hesper  had  paused.  As 
she  did  not  reply,  Sepia  resumed. 

"Which  is  your  favorite  poison,  Hesper  ?"  she  said. 

"  When  I  choose,  it  will  be  to  use,"  replied  Hesper. 

"Ehyming,  at  last ! "  said  Sepia. 

But  Hesper  would  not  laugh,  and  her  perfect  calmness 
checked  the  laughter  which  would  have  been  Sepia's  natural 
response  :  she  was  careful  not  to  go  too  far. 

"Do  you  know,  Hesper,"  she  said,  with  seriousness,  "what 
is  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

"Tolerably  well,"  answered  Hesper. 

"You  do  not— let  me  tell  you.  You  are  nothing  but  a 
baby  yet.     You  have  no  heart." 

"If  you  mean  that  I  have  never  been  in  love,  you  are 
right.  But  you  talk  foolishly  ;  for  you  know  that  love  is  no 
more  within  my  reach  than  if  I  were  the  corpse  I  feel." 

Sepia  pressed  her  lips  together,  and  nodded  knowingly; 
then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  said  : 

"  When  your  hour  is  come,  you  will  understand.     Every 


MRS.  REDMAIN'S  DRAWING-ROOM.  205 

woman's  hour  comes,  one  time  or  another — whether  she  will  or 
not." 

"  Sepia,  if  you  think  that,  because  I  hate  my  husband,  I 
would  allow  another  man  to  make  love  to  me,  you  do  not  know 
me  yet." 

"I  know  you  very  well ;  you  do  not  know  yourself,  Hes- 
per  ;  you  do  not  know  the  heart  of  a  woman — because  your 
own  has  never  come  awake  yet." 

"  God  forbid  it  ever  should,  then — so  long  as — as  the  man 
I  hate  is  alive  ! " 

Sepia  laughed. 

"A  good  prayer,"  she  said;  "for  "who  can  tell  what  you 
might  do  to  him  ! " 

"Sepia,  I  sometimes  think  you  are  a  devil." 

"And  I  sometimes  think  you  are  a  saint." 

"What  do  you  take  me  for  the  other  times  ?" 

"  A  hypocrite.     What  do  you  take  me  for  the  other  times  ?  " 

"No  hypocrite,"  answered  Hesper. 

With  a  light,  mocking  laugh,  Sepia  turned  away,  and  left 
the  room. 

Hesper  did  not  move.  If  stillness  indicates  thought,  then 
Hesper  was  thinking  ;  and  surely  of  late  she  had  suffered  what 
might  have  waked  something  like  thought  in  what  would  then 
have  been  something  like  a  mind  :  all  the  machinery  of  thought 
was  there — sorely  clogged,  and  rusty ;  but  for  a  woman  to 
hate  her  husband  is  hardly  enough  to  make  a  thinking  crea- 
ture of  her.  True  as  it  was,  there  was  no  little  affectation 
in  her  saying  what  she  did  about  the  worthlessness  of  her  life. 
She  was  plump  and  fresh ;  her  eye  was  clear,  her  hand  firm 
and  cool ;  suffering  would  have  to  go  a  good  deal  deeper  before 
it  touched  in  her  the  issues  of  life,  or  the  love  of  it.  What 
set  her  talking  so,  was  in  great  part  the  ennui  of  endeavor 
after  enjoyment,  and  the  reaction  from  success  in  the  pursuit. 
Her  low  moods  were,  however,  far  more  frequent  than,  even 
with  such  fatigue  and  reaction  to  explain  them,  belonged  to 
her  years,  her  health,  or  her  temperament. 

The  fire  grew  hot.  Hesper  thought  of  her  complexion, 
and  pushed  her  chair  back.     Then  she  rose,  and,  having  taken 


206  MARY  MARSTOK 

a  hand-screen  from  the  chimney-piece,  was  fanning  herself 
with  it,  when  the  door  opened,  and  a  servant  asked  if  she  were 
at  home  to  Mr.  Helmer.  She  hesitated  a  moment :  what  an 
unearthly  hour  for  a  caller  ! 

"  Show  him  up,"  she  answered  :  anything  was  better  than 
her  own  company. 

Tom  Helmer  entered — much  the  same — a,  little  paler  and 
thinner.  He  made  his  approach  with  a  certain  loose  grace  nat- 
ural to  him,  and  seated  himself  on  the  chair,  at  some  distance 
from  her  own,  to  which  Mrs.  Eedmain  motioned  him. 

Tom  seldom  failed  of  pleasing.  He  was  well  dressed,  and 
not  too  much ;  and,  to  the  natural  confidence  of  his  shallow 
character,  added  the  assurance  born  of  a  certain  small  degree 
of  success  in  his  profession,  which  he  took  for  the  pledge  of  ap- 
proaching supremacy.  He  carried  himself  better  than  he  used, 
and  his  legs  therefore  did  not  look  so  long.  His  hair  continued 
to  curl  soft  and  silky  about  his  head,  for  he  protested  against 
the  fashionable  conyict-style.  His  hat  was  new,  and  he  bore 
it  in  front  of  him  like  a  ready  apology. 

It  was  to  no  presentableness  of  person,  however,  any  more 
than  to  previous  acquaintance,  that  Tom  now  owed  his  admit- 
tance. True,  he  had  been  to  Durnmelling  not  unfrequently, 
but  that  was  in  the  other  world  of  the  country,  and  even  there 
Hesper  had  taken  no  interest  in  the  self-satisfied  though  not 
ill-bred  youth  who  went  galloping  about  the  country,  showing 
off  to  rustic  girls.  It  was  merely,  as  I  have  said,  that  she 
could  no  longer  endure  a  tete-a-tete  with  one  she  knew  so  lit- 
tle as  herself,  and  whose  acquaintance  she  was  so  little  desirous 
of  cultivating. 

Tom  had  been  to  a  small  party  at  the  house  a  few  evenings 
before,  brought  thither  by  the  well-known  leader  of  a  certain 
literary  clique,  who,  in.  return  for  homage,  not  seldom  took 
younger  aspirants  under  a  wing  destined  never  to  be  itself  more 
than  half-fledged.  It  was,  notwithstanding,  broad  enough 
already  so  to  cover  Tom  with  its  shadow  that  under  it  he  was 
able  to  creep  into  several  houses  of  a  sort  of  distinction,  and 
among  them  into  Mrs.  Eedmain's. 

Nothing  of  less  potency  than  the  presumption  attendant  on 


MRS,  REDMAIN'S  DRAWING-ROOM.  207 

self-satisfaction  could  have  emboldened  him  to  call  thus  early, 
and  that  in  the  hope  not  merely  of  finding  Mrs.  Eedmain  at 
home,  but  of  finding  her  alone  ;  and,  with  the  not  unusual 
reward  of  unworthy  daring,  he  had  succeeded.  He  was  am- 
bitious of  making  himself  acceptable  to  ladies  of  social  influ- 
ence, and  of  being  known  to  stand  well  with  such.  In  the  case 
of  Mrs.  Eedmain  he  was  the  more  anxious,  because  she  had 
not  received  him  on  any  footing  of  former  acquaintance. 

At  the  gathering  to  which  I  have  referred,  a  certain  song 
was  sung  by  a  lady,  not  without  previous  manoeuvre  on  the 
part  of  Tom,  with  which  Mrs.  Eedmain  had  languidly  ex- 
pressed herself  pleased  :  that  song  he  had  now  brought  her — 
for,  concerning  words  and  music  both,  he  might  have  said  with 
Touchstone,  "An  ill-favored  thing,  but  mine  own."  He  did 
not  quote  Touchstone  because  he  believed  both  words  and  mu- 
sic superexcellent,  the  former  being  in  truth  not  quite  bad, 
and  the  latter  nearly  as  good.  Appreciation  was  the  very  hun- 
ger of  Tom's  small  life,  and  here  was  a  chance  ! 

"I  ought  to  apologize,"  he  said,  airily,  "and  I  will,  if  you 
will  allow  me." 

Mrs.  Eedmain  said  nothing,  only  waited  with  her  eyes. 
They  were  calm,  reposeful  eyes,  not  fixed,  scarcely  lying  upon 
Tom.  It  was  chilling,  but  he  was  not  easily  chilled  when  self 
was  in  the  question — as  it  generally  was  with  Tom.  He  felt, 
however,  that  he  must  talk  or  be  lost. 

" I  have  taken  the  liberty,"  he  said,  "of  bringing  you  the 
song  I  had  the  pleasure — a  greater  pleasure  than  you  will  read- 
ily imagine — of  hearing  you  admire  the  other  evening. " 

"  I  forget,"  said  Hesper. 

"I  would  not  have  ventured,"  continued  Tom,  "had  it  not 
happened  that  both  air  and  words  were  my  own." 

"Ah! — indeed!  —  I  did  not  know  you  were  a  poet, 
Mr.—" 

She  had  forgotten  his  name. 

"That  or  nothing,"  answered  Tom,  boldly. 

"And  a  musician,  too  ?" 

"At  your  service,  Mrs.  Eedmain." 

"I  don't  happen  to  want  a  poet  at  present; — or  a  musician 


208  MARY  MARSTOK 

either,"  she  said,  with  just  enough  of  a  smile  to  turn  the  rude- 
ness into  what  Tom  accepted  as  a  flattering  familiarity. 

"  JSTor  am  I  in  want  of  a  place,"  he  replied,  with  spirit ;  "  a 
bird  can  sing  on  any  branch.  Will  you  allow  me  to  sing  this 
song  on  yours  ?  Mrs.  Downport  scarcely  gave  the  expression 
I  could  have  desired. — May  I  read  the  voices  before  I  sing 
them?" 

Without  either  intimacy  or  encouragement,  Tom  was  capa- 
ble of  offering  to  read  his  own  verses  !  Such  fools  self-parti- 
sanship makes  of  us. 

Mrs.  Eedmain  was,  for  her,  not  a  little  amused  with  the 
young  man  ;  he  was  not  just  like  every  other  that  came  to  the 
house. 

"I  should  li-i-ike,"  she  said. 

Tom  laid  himself  back  a  little  in  his  chair,  with  the  sheet 
of  music  in  his  hand,  closed  his  eyes,  and  repeated,  as  follows — 
he  knew  all  his  own  verses  by  heart : 

"  Lovely  lady,  sweet  disdain ! 

Prithee  keep  thy  Love  at  home ; 
Bind  him  with  a  tressed  chain  ; 
Do  not  let  the  mischief  roam. 

"In  the  jewel-cave,  thine  eye, 
In  the  tangles  of  thy  hair, 
It  is  well  the  imp  should  lie — 

There  his  home,  his  heaven  is  there. 

"  But  for  pity's  sake,  forbid 
Beauty's  wasp  at  me  to  fly ; 
Sure  the  child  should  not  be  chid, 
And  his  mother  standing  by. 

"For  if  once  the  villain  came 
To  my  house,  too  well  I  know 
He  would  set  it  all  aflame — 
To  the  winds  its  ashes  blow. 

"Prithee  keep  thy  Love  at  home; 
Net  him  up  or  he  will  start ; 
And  if  once  the  mischief  roam, 

Straight  he'll  wing  him  to  my  heart." 


MRS.   REDMAIN'S  DRAWING-ROOM.  209 

What  there  might  be  in  verse  like  this  to  touch  with  faint- 
est emotion,  let  him  say  who  cultivates  art  for  art's  sake. 
Doubtless  there  is  that  in  rhythm  and  rhyme  and  cadence 
which  will  touch  the  pericardium  when  the  heart  itself  is  not 
to  be  reached  by  diyinest  harmony  ;  but,  whether  such  women 
as  Hesper  feel  this  touch  or  only  admire  a  song  as  they  admire 
the  church-prayers  and  Shakespeare,  or  whether,  imagining  in 
it  some  tour  de  force  of  which  they  are  themselves  incapable, 
they  therefore  look  upon  it  as  a  mighty  thing,  I  am  at  a  loss 
to  determine.  All  I  know  is  that  a  gleam  as  from  some  far-off 
mirror  of  admiration  did  certainly,  to  Tom's  great  satisfaction, 
appear  on  Hesper's  countenance.  As,  however,  she  said  no- 
thing, he,  to  waive  aside  a  threatening  awkwardness,  lightly 
subjoined  : 

"  Queen  Anne  is  all  the  rage  now,  you  see." 

Mrs.  Eedmain  knew  that  Queen- Anne  houses  were  in  fash- 
ion, and  was  even  able  to  recognize  one  by  its  flush  window- 
frames,  while  she  had  felt  something  odd,  which  might  be  old- 
fashioned,  in  the  song ;  between  the  two,  she  was  led  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  fashion  of  Queen  Anne's  time  had  been 
revived  in  the  making  of  verses  also. 

"  Can  you,  then,  make  a  song  to  any  pattern  you  please  ?" 
she  asked. 

"I  fancy  so,"  answered  Tom,  indifferently,  as  if  it  were 
nothing  to  him  to  do  whatever  he  chose  to  attempt.  And  in 
fact  he  could  imitate  almost  anything — and  well,  too — the 
easier  that  he  had  nothing  of  his  own  pressing  for  utterance  ; 
for  he  had  yet  made  no  response  to  the  first  demand  made  on 
every  man,  the  only  demand  for  originality  made  on  any  man 
— that  he  should  order  his  own  way  aright. 

"How  clever  you  must  be!"  drawled  Hesper;  and,  not- 
withstanding the  tone,  the  words  were  pleasant  in  the  ears  of 
goose  Tom.  He  rose,  opened  the  piano,  and,  with  not  a  little 
cheap  facility,  began  to  accompany  a  sweet  tenor  voice  in  the 
song  he  had  just  read. 

The  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Eedmain  came  in.  He  gave  a 
glance  at  Tom  as  he  sang,  and  went  up  to  his  wife  where  she 
still  sat,  with  her  face  to  the  fire,  and  her  back  to  the  piano. 


210  MART  MARSTOK 

"New  singing-master,  eh.  ?"  lie  said. 

"No,"  answered  his  wife. 

"Who  the  deuce  is  he  ?  " 

"I  forget  his  name,"  replied  Hesper,  in  the  tone  of  one 
bored  by  question.     "  He  used  to  come  to  Durnmelling." 

"  That  is  no  reason  why  he  should  not  have  a  name  to 
him." 

Hesper  did  not  reply.  Tom  went  on  playing.  The  mo- 
ment he  struck  the  last  chord,  she  called  to  him  in  a  clear, 
soft,  cold  Yoice  : 

"  Will  you  tell  Mr.  Eedmain  your  name  ?  I  happen  to 
haye  forgotten  it." 

Tom  picked  up  his  hat,  rose,  came  forward,  and,  mention- 
ing his  name,  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  don't  know  you,"  said  Mr.  Eedmain,  touching  his  palm 
with  two  fingers  that  felt  like  small  fishes. 

"  It  is  of  no  consequence,"  said  his  wife  ;  "Mr.  Aylmer  is 
an  old  acquaintance  of  our  family." 

"  Only  you  don't  quite  remember  his  name  !" 

"  It  is  not  my  friends'  names  only  I  have  an  unhappy  trick 
of  forgetting.     I  often  forget  yours,  Mr.  Eedmain  ! " 

"  My  good  name,  you  must  mean." 

"I  never  heard  that." 

Neither  had  raised  the  voice,  or  spoken  with  the  least  ap- 
parent anger. 

Mr.  Eedmain  gave  a  grin  instead  of  a  retort.  He  appre- 
ciated, her  sharpness  too  much  to  get  one  ready  in  time.  Turn- 
ing away,  he  left  the  room  with  a  quiet,  steady  step,  taking 
his  grin  with  him :  it  had  drawn  the  clear,  scanty  skin  yet 
tighter  on  his  face,  and  remained  fixed ;  so  that  he  vanished 
with  something  of  the  look  of  a  hairless  tiger. 

The  moment  he  disappeared,  Tom's  gaze,  which  had  been 
fascinated,  sought  Hesper.  Her  lips  were  shaping  the  word 
brute  ! — Tom  heard  it  with  his  eyes  ;  her  eyes  were  flashing, 
and  her  face  was  flushed.  But  the  same  instant,  in  a  voice 
perfectly  calm — 

"Is  there  anything  else  you  would  like  to  sing,  Mr.  Hel- 
mer  ?"  she  said.     "  Or — " 


MARY'S  RECEPTION.  211 

Here  she  ceased,  with  the  slightest  possible  choking — it  was 
only  of  anger — in  the  throat. 

Tom's  was  a  sympathetic  nature,  especially  where  a  pretty 
woman  was  in  question.  He  forgot  entirely  that  she  had  given 
quite  as  good,  or  as  had,  as  she  received,  and  was  hastening  to 
say  something  foolish,  imagining  he  had  looked  upon  the  sor- 
rows of  a  lovely  and  unhappy  wife  and  was  almost  in  her  con- 
fidence, when  Sepia  entered  the  room,  with  a  dark  glow  that 
flashed  into  dusky  radiance  at  sight  of  the  handsome  Tom. 
She  had  noted  him  on  the  night  of  the  party,  and  remembered 
having  seen  him  at  the  merrymaking  in  the  old  hall  of  Durn- 
melling,  but  he  had  not  been  introduced  to  her.  A  minute 
more,  and  they  were  sitting  together  in  a  bay-window,  blazing 
away  at  each  other  like  two  corvettes,  though  their  cartridges 
were  often  blank  enough,  while  Hesjjer,  never  heeding  them, 
kept  her  place  by  the  chimney,  her  gaze  transferred  from  the 
fire  to  the  novel  she  had  sent  for  from  her  bedroom. 


CHAPTEK  XXV. 

MARY'S    RECEPTION. 

In"  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day,  now  dreary  enough,  with 
the  dreariness  naturally  belonging  to  the  dreariest  month  of 
the  year,  Mary  arrived  in  the  city  preferred  to  all  cities  by 
those  who  live  in  it,  but  the  most  uninviting,  I  should  imagine, 
to  a  stranger,  of  all  cities  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Cold 
seemed  to  have  taken  to  itself  a  visible  form  in  the  thin,  gray 
fog  that  filled  the  huge  station  from  the  platform  to  the  glass 
roof.  The  latter  had  vanished,  indistinguishable  from  sky  in- 
visible, and  from  the  brooding  darkness,  in  which  the  lamps 
innumerable  served  only  to  make  spots  of  thinness.  It  was  a 
mist,  not  a  November  fog,  properly  so  called  ;  but  every  breath 
breathed  by  every  porter,  as  he  ran  along  by  the  side  of  the 
slowly  halting  train,  was  adding  to  its  mass,  whicli.  seemed  to 
Mary  to  grow  in  bulk  and  density  as  she  gazed.     Her  quiet, 


212  MART  MARSTOK 

simple,  decided  manner  at  once  secured  her  attention,  and  she 
was  among  the  first  who  had  their  boxes  on  cabs  and  were 
driving  away. 

But  the  drive  seemed  interminable,  and  she  had  grown  anx- 
ious and  again  calmed  herself  many  times,  before  it  came  to  an 
end.  The  house  at  which  the  cab  drew  up  was  large,  and 
looked  as  dreary  as  large,  but  scarcely  drearier  than  any  other 
house  in  London  on  that  same  night  of  November.  .  The  cab- 
man rang  the  bell,  but  it  was  not  until  they  had  waited  a  time 
altogether  unreasonable  that  the  door  at  length  opened,  and  a 
lofty,  well-built  footman  in  livery  appeared  framed  in  it. 

Mary  got  out,  and,  going  up  the  steps,  said  she  hoped  the 
driver  had  brought  her  to  the  right  house  :  it  was  Mrs.  Eed- 
main's  she  wanted. 

"  Mrs.  Kedmain  is  not  at  home,  miss,"  answered  the  man. 
"  I  didn't  hear  as  how  she  was  expecting  of  any  one,"  he  added, 
with  a  glance  at  the  boxes,  formlessly  visible  on  the  cab,  through 
the  now  thicker  darkness. 

"She  is  expecting  me,  I  know,"  returned  Mary;  "but  of 
course  she  would  not  stay  at  home  to  receive  me,"  she  remarked, 
with  a  smile. 

"Oh  ! "  returned  the  man,  in  a  peculiar  tone,  and  adding, 
"I'll  see,"  went  away,  leaving  her  on  the  top  of  the  steps,  with 
the  cabman,  behind  her,  at  the  bottom  of  them,  waiting  orders 
to  get  her  boxes  down. 

"It  don't  appear  as  you  was  overwelcome,  miss !"  he  re- 
marked :  with  his  comrades  on  the  stand  he  passed  for  a  wit ; 
" — leastways,  it  don't  seem  as  your  sheets  was  quite  done  hair- 
ing." 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Mary,  cheerfully. 

She  was  not  ready  to  imagine  her  dignity  in  danger,  there- 
fore did  not  provoke  assault  upon  it  by  anxiety  for  its  safety. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  it,  miss,"  the  man  rejoined. 

"Why  ?"  she  asked. 

"  'Cause  I  should  ha'  liked  to  ha'  taken  you  farther." 

"  But  why  ?"  said  Mary,  the  second  time,  not  understand- 
ing him,  and  not  unwilling  to  cover  the  awkwardness  of  that 
slow  minute  of  waiting. 


MARY'S  RECEPTION.  213 

"  Because  it  gives  a  poor  man  with  a  whole  family  o'  prowo- 
cations  some'at  of  a  chance,  to  'ave  a  affable  young  lady  like 
you,  miss,  behind  him  in  his  cab,  once  a  year,  or  thereabouts. 
It's  not  by  no  means  as  I'd  have  you  go  farther  and  fare  worse, 
which  it's  a  sayin'  as  I've  heerd  said,  miss.  So,  if  you're  sure 
o'  the  place,  I  may  as  well  be  a-gettin'  down  of  your  boxes." 

So  saying,  he  got  on  the  cab,  and  proceeded  to  unfasten  the 
chain  that  secured  the  luggage. 

"Wait  a  bit,  cabbie.  Don't  you  be  in  sech  a  'urry  as  if  you 
was  a  'ansom,  now,"  cried  the  footman,  reappearing  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  hall.  "  I  should  be  sorry  if  there  was  a  mis- 
take, and  you  wasn't  man  enough  to  put  your  boxes  up  again 
without  assistance."  Then,  turning  to  Mary,  "Mrs.  Perkin 
says,  miss — that's  the  housekeeper,  miss,"  he  went  on,  "  — that, 
if  as  you're  the  young  woman  from  the  country — and  I'm  sure 
I  beg  your  pardon  if  I  make  a  mistake — it  ain't  my  fault,  miss 
— Mrs.  Perkin  says  she  did  hear  Mrs.  Eedmain  make  mention 
of  one,  but  she  didn't  have  any  instructions  concerning  her. — 
But,  as  there  you  are,"  he  continued  more  familiarly,  gathering 
courage  from  Mary's  nodded  assent,  "you  can  put  your  boxes 
in  the  hall,  and  sit  down,  she  says,  till  Mrs.  E.  comes  'ome." 

"Do  you  think  she  will  be  long  ?"  asked  Mary. 

"  Well,  that's  what  no  fellow  can't  say,  seein'  its  a  new  play 
as  she's  gone  to.  They  call  it  Doomsday,  an'  there's  no  tellin' 
when  parties  is  likely  to  come  'ome  from  that,"  said  the  man, 
with  a  grin  of  satisfaction  at  his  own  wit. 

Was  London  such  a  happy  place  that  everybody  in  it  was 
given  to  joking,  thought  Mary. 

"  'Ere,  mister  !  gi'  me  a  'and  wi'  this  'ere  luggage,"  cried 
the  cabman,  finding  the  box  he  was  getting  down  too  much  for 
him.  "Yah  wouldn't  see  me  break  my  back,  an'  my  poor 
'orse  standin'  there  a  lookin'  on — would  ye  now  ?  " 

"Why  don't  you  bring  a  man  with  you?"  objected  the 
footman,  as  he  descended  the  steps  notwithstanding,  to  give 
the  required  assistance.  "  I  ain't  paid  as  a  crane. — By  Juppi- 
ter  !  what  a  weight  the  new  party's  boxes  is  ! " 

"Only  that  one,"  said  Mary,  apologetically.  " It  is  full  of 
books.     The  other  is  not  half  so  heavy." 


214  MARY  MARSTON. 

"Oh.,  it  ain't  the  weight,  miss  !"  returned  the  footman, 
who  had  not  intended  she  should  hear  the  remark.  "  I  believe 
Mr.  Cabman  and  myself  will  prove  equal  to  the  occasion." 

With  that  the  book-box  came  down  a  great  bump  on  the 
pavement,  and  presently  both  were  in  the  hall,  the  one  on  the 
top  of  the  other.  Mary  paid  the  cabman,  who  asked  not  a 
penny  more  than  his  fare  ;  he  departed  with  thanks  ;  the  face- 
tious footman  closed  the  door,  told  her  to  take  a  seat,  and  went 
away  full  of  laughter,  to  report  that  the  young  person  had 
brought  a  large  library  with  her  to  enliven  the  dullness  of  her 
new  situation. 

Mrs.  Perkin  smiled  crookedly,  and,  in  a  tone  of  pleasant  re- 
proof, desired  her  laughter-compressing  inferior  not  to  forget 
his  manners. 

"Please,  ma'am,  am  I  to  leave  the  young  woman  sittin'  up 
there  all  by  herself  in  the  cold  ?  "  he  asked,  straightening  him- 
self up.  "  She  do  look  a  rayther  superior  sort  of  young  per- 
son," he  added,  "and  the  'all-stove  is  dead  out." 

"For  the  present,  Castle,"  replied  Mrs.  Perkin. 

She  judged  it  wise  to  let  the  young  woman  have  a  lesson  at 
once  in  subjection  and  inferiority. 

Mrs.  Perkin  was  a  rather  tall,  rather  thin,  quite  straight, 
and  very  dark-complexioned  woman.  She  always  threw  her 
head  back  on  one  side  and  her  chin  out  on  the  other  when 
she  spoke,  and  had  about  her  a  great  deal  of  the  authoritative, 
which  she  mingled  with  such  consideration  toward  her  subordi- 
nates as  to  secure  their  obedience  to  her,  while  she  cultivated 
antagonism  to  her  mistress.  She  had  had  a  better  education 
than  most  persons  of  her  class,  but  was  morally  not  an  atom 
their  superior  in  consequence.  She  never  went  into  a  new 
place  but  with  the  feeling  that  she  was  of  more  importance  by 
far  than  her  untried  mistress,  and  the  worthier  person  of  the 
two.  She  entered  her  service,  therefore,  as  one  whose  work  it 
was  to  take  care  of  herself  against  a  woman  whose  mistress 
she  ought  to  have  been,  had  Providence  but  started  her  with 
her  natural  rights.  At  the  same  time,  she  would  have  been 
almost  as  much  offended  by  a  hint  that  she  was  not  a  Christian, 
as  she  would  have  been  by  a  doubt  whether  she  was  a  lady. 


MART'S  RECEPTION.  215 

For,  indeed,  she  was  both,  if  a  great  opinion  of  herself  consti- 
tuted the  latter,  and  a  great  opinion  of  going  to  church  con- 
stituted the  former. 

She  had  not  been  taken  into  Hesperus  confidence  with  re- 
gard to  Mary,  had  discovered  that  "a  young  person"  was  ex- 
pected, but  had  learned  nothing  of  what  her  position  in  the 
house  was  to  be.  She  welcomed,  therefore,  this  opportunity 
both  of  teaching  Mrs.  Eedmain — she  never  called  her  her  mis- 
tress, while  severely  she  insisted  on  the  other  servants'  speak- 
ing of  her  so — the  propriety  of  taking  counsel  with  her  house- 
keeper and  of  letting  the  young  person  know  in  time  that 
Mrs.  Perkin  was  in  reality  her  mistress. 

The  relation  of  the  upper  servants  of  the  house  to  their 
employers  was  more  like  that  of  the  managers  of  an  hotel  to 
their  guests.  The  butler,  the  lady's-maid,  and  Mr.  Eedmain's 
body-servant,  who  had  been  with  him  before  his  marriage,  and 
was  supposed  to  be  deep  in  his  master's  confidence,  ate  with 
the  housekeeper  in  her  room,  waited  upon  by  the  livery  and 
maid-servants,  except  the  second  cook  :  the  first  cook  only 
came  to  superintend  the  cooking  of  the  dinner,  and  went  away 
after.  To  all  these  Mrs.  Perkin  was  careful  to  be  just ;  and,  if 
she  was  precise  even  to  severity  with  them,  she  was  herself 
obedient  to  the  system  she  had  established — the  main  feature 
of  which  was  punctuality.  She  not  only  regarded  punctuality 
as  the  foremost  of  virtues,  but,  in  righteous  moral  sequence, 
made  it  the  first  of  her  duties  ;  and  the  benefit  everybody 
reaped.  For  nothing  oils  the  household  wheels  so  well  as  this 
same  punctuality.  In  a  family,  love,  if  it  be  strong,  genuine, 
and  patent,  will  make  up  for  anything  ;  but,  where  there  is  no 
family  and  no  love,  the  loss  of  punctuality  will  soon  turn  a 
house  into  the  mere  pouch  of  a  social  inferno.  Here  the  mas- 
ter and  mistress  came  and  went,  regardless  of  each  other,  and 
of  all  household  polity  ;  but  their  meals  were  ready  for  them 
to  the  minute,  when  they  chose  to  be  there  to  eat  them ;  the 
carriage  came  round  like  one  of  the  puppets  on  the  Strasburg 
clock ;  the  house  was  quiet  as  a  hospital ;  the  bells  were  an- 
swered— all  except  the  door-bell  outside  of  calling  hours — with 
swiftness  ;  you  could  not  soil  your  fingers  anywhere — not  even 


216  MARY  MARSTOK 

if  the  sweep  had  been  that  same  morning  ;  the  manners  of  the 
servants — when  serving — were  unexceptionable  ;  .but  the  house 
was  scarcely  more  of  a  home  than  one  of  the  huge  hotels 
characteristic  of  the  "age. 

In  the  hall  of  it  sat  Mary  for  the  space  of  an  hour,  not  ex- 
actly learning  the  lesson  Mrs.  Perkin  had  intended  to  teach 
her,  but  learning  more  than  one  thing  Mrs.  Perkin  was  not 
yet  capable  of  learning.  I  can  not  say  she  was  comfortable, 
for  she  was  both  cold  and  hungry  ;  but  she  was  far  from  mis- 
erable. She  had  no  small  gift  of  patience,  and  had  taught 
herself  to  look  upon  the  less  troubles  of  life  as  on  a  bad  dream. 
There  are  children,  though  not  yet  many,  capable,  through 
faith  in  their  parents,  of  learning  not  a  little  by  their  expe- 
rience, and  Mary  was  one  of  such  :  from  the  first  she  received 
her  father's  lessons  like  one  whose  business  it  was  to  learn 
them,  and  had  thereby  come  to  learn  where  he  had  himself 
learned.  Hence  she  was  not  one  to  say  our  Father  in  heaven, 
and  act  as  if  there  were  no  such  Father,  or  as  if  he  cared  but 
little  for  his  children.  She  was  even  foolish  enough  to  believe 
that  that  Father  both  knew  and  cared  that  she  was  hungry 
and  cold  and  wearily  uncomfortable  ;  and  thence  she  was  weak 
enough  to  take  the  hunger  and  cold  and  discomfort  as  mere 
passing  trifles,  which  could  not  last  a  moment  longer  than 
they  ought.  From  her  sore-tried  endeavors  after  patience,  had 
grown  the  power  of  active  waiting — and  a  genuinely  waiting 
child  is  one  of  the  loveliest  sights  the  earth  has  to  show. 

This  was  not  the  reception  she  had  pictured  to  herself,  as 
the  train  came  rushing  from  Testbridge  to  London ;  she  had 
not,  indeed,  imagined  a  warm  one,  but  she  had  not  expected  to 
be  forgotten — for  so  she  interpreted  her  abandonment  in  the 
hall,  which  seemed  to  grow  colder  every  minute.  She  saw  no 
means  of  reminding  the  household  of  her  neglected  presence, 
and  indeed  would  rather  have  remained  where  she  was  till  the 
morning  than  encounter  the  growing  familiarity  of  the  man 
who  had  admitted  her.  She  did  think  once — if  Mrs.  Bedmain 
were  to  hear  of  her  reception,  how  she  would  resent  it  !  and 
would  have  found  it  difficult  to  believe  how  far  people  like  her 
are  from  troubling  themselves  about  the  behavior  of  their  ser- 


MARY'S  RECEPTION.  217 

vants  to  other  people  ;  for  they  have  no  idea  of  an  obligation 
to  rule  their  own  house,  neither  seem  to  have  a  notion  of  being 
accountable  for  what  goes  on  in  it. 

She  had  grown  very  weary,  and  began  to  long  for  a  floor 
on  which  she  might  stretch  herself ;  there  was  not  a  sound  in 
the  house  but  the  ticking  of  a  clock  somewhere  ;  and  she  was 
now  wondering  whether  everybody  had  gone  to  bed,  when  she 
heard  a  step  approaching,  and  presently  Castle,  who  was  the 
only  man  at  home,  stood  up  before  her,  and,  with  the  ease  of 
perfect  self-satisfaction,  and  as  if  there  was  nothing  in  the  neg- 
lect of  her  but  the  custom  of  the  house  to  cool  people  well  in 
the  hall  before  admitting  them  to  its  penetralia,  said,  "  Step 
this  way — miss "  ;  the  last  word  added  after  a  pause  of  pre- 
tended hesitation,  for  the  man  had  taken  his  cue  from  the 
housekeeper. 

Mary  rose,  and  followed  him  to  the  basement  story,  into  a 
comfortable  room,  where  sat  Mrs.  Perkin,  embroidering  large 
sunflowers  on  a  piece  of  coarse  stuff.  She  was  artistic,  and 
despised  the  whole  style  of  the  house. 

"You  may  sit  down,"  she  said,  and  pointed  to  a  chair  near 
the  door. 

Mary,  not  a  little  amused,  for  all  her  discomfort,  did  as  she 
was  permitted,  and  awaited  what  should  come  next. 

"What  part  of  the  country  are  you  from?"  asked  Mrs. 
Perkin,  with  her  usual  diagonal  upward  toss  of  the  chin,  but 
without  lifting  her  eyes  from  her  work. 

"From  Testbridge,"  answered  Mary. 

"The  servants  in  this  house  are  in  the  habit  of  saying 
ma'am  to  their  superiors  :  it  is  required  of  them,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Perkin.  But,  although  her  tone  was  one  of  rebuke, 
she  said  the  words  lightly,  tossed  the  last  of  them  off, 
indeed,  almost  playfully,  as  if  the  lesson  was  meant  for  one 
who  could  hardly  have  been  expected  to  know  better.  "And 
what  place  did  you  apply  for  in  the  house  ?"  she  went  on  to 
ask. 

"  I  can  hardly  say,  ma'am,"  answered  Mary,  avoiding  both 
inflection  and  emphasis,  and  by  her  compliance  satisfying  Mrs. 
Perkin  that  she  had  been  right  in  requiring  the  Tcotou. 
10 


218  MARY  MAR8T0K 

"It  is  not  usual  for  young  persons  to  be  engaged  without 
knowing  for  what  purpose." 

"I  suppose  not,  ma'am." 

"  What  wages  were  you  to  have  ? "  next  inquired  Mrs. 
Perkin,  gradually  assuming  a  more  decided  drawl  as  she  be- 
came more  assured  of  her  position  with  the  stranger.  She 
would  gladly  get  some  light  on  the  affair.  "You  need  not 
object  to  mentioning  them,"  she  went  on,  for  she  imagined 
Mary  hesitated,  whereas  she  was  only  a  little  troubled  to  keep 
from  laughing ;  "I  always  pay  the  wages  myself." 

"There  was  nothing  said  about  wages,  ma'am,"  answered 
Mary. 

"  Indeed  !  Neither  work  nor  wages  specified  ?  Excuse  me 
if  I  say  it  seems  rather  peculiar. — We  must  be  content  to  wait 
a  little,  then — until  we  learn  what  Mrs.  Redmain  expected  of 
you,  and  whether  or  not  you  are  capable  of  it.  We  can  go  no 
further  now." 

"  Certainly  not,  ma'am,"  assented  Mary. 

"  Can  you  use  your  needle  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Have  you  done  any  embroidery  ?  " 

"  I  understand  it  a  little,  but  I  am  not  particularly  fond 
of  it." 

"You  mistake  :  I  did  not  ask  you  whether  you  were  fond 
of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Perkin  ;  "I  asked  you  if  you  had  ever  done 
any  "  ;  and  she  smiled  severely,  but  ludicrously,  for  a  diagonal 
smile  is  apt  to  have  a  comic  effect.  "Here  ! — take  off  your 
gloves,"  she  continued,  "and  let  me  see  you  do  one  of  these 
loose-worked  sunflowers.  They  are  the  fashion  now,  though, 
I  dare  say,  you  will  not  be  able  to  see  the  beauty  of  them." 

"Please,  ma'am,"  returned  Mary,  "if  you  will  excuse  me, 
I  would  rather  go  to  my  room.  I  have  had  a  long  journey, 
and  am  very  tired." 

"There  is  no  room  yours. — I  have  had  no  character  with 
you. — Nothing  can  be  done  till  Mrs.  Eedmain  comes  home, 
and  she  and  I  have  had  a  little  talk  about  you.  But  you  can 
go  to  the  housemaid's — the  second  housemaid's  room,  I  mean 
— and  make  yourself  tidy.     There  is  a  spare  bed  in  it,  I  be- 


MARY'S  RECEPTION.  219 

lieve,  which  you  can  have  for  the  night ;  only  mind  you  don't 
keep  the  girl  awake  talking  to  her,  or  she  will  be  late  in  the 
morning,  and  that  I  never  put  up  with.  I  think  you  will  do. 
You  seem  willing  to  learn,  and  that  is  half  the  battle." 

Therewith  Mrs.  Perkin,  believing  she  had  laid  in  awe  the 
foundation  of  a  rightful  authority  over  the  young  person,  gave 
her  a  nod  of  dismissal,  which  she  intended  to  be  friendly. 

''Please,  ma'am,"  said  Mary,  "could  I  have  one  of  my 
boxes  taken  up  stairs  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.  I  can  not  have  two  movings  of  them  ;  I 
must  take  care  of  my  men.  And  your  boxes,  I  understand,  are 
heavy,  quite  absurdly  so.  It  would  look  better  in  a  young  per- 
son not  to  have  so  much  to  carry  about  with  her." 

"I  have  but  two  boxes,  ma'am,"  said  Mary. 

"  Full  of  looks,  I  am  told. " 

"  One  of  them  only." 

"You  must  do  your  best  without  them  to-night.  When  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  what  is  to  be  done  with  you,  I  shall 
let  you  have  the  one  with  your  clothes  ;  the  other  shall  be  put 
away  in  the  box-room.  I  give  my  people  what  books  I  think 
fit.  For  light  reading,  the  "Fireside  Herald"  is  quite  enough 
for  the  room. — There — good  night ! " 

Mary  courtesied,  and  left  her.  At  the  door  she  glanced 
this  way  and  that  to  find  some  indication  to  guide  her  steps. 
A  door  was  open  at  the  end  of  a  passage,  and  from  the  odor 
that  met  her,  it  seemed  likely  to  be  that  of  the  kitchen.  She 
approached,  and  peeped  in. 

"Who  is  that  ?"  cried  a  voice  irate. 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  second  cook,  who  was  there  supreme 
except  when  the  chef  was  present.  Mary  stepped  in,  and  the 
woman  advanced  to  meet  her. 

"May  I  ask  to  what  I  am  indebted  for  the  honner  of  this 
unexpected  visit  ?  "  said  the  second  cook,  whose  head  its  over- 
charge of  self-importance  jerked  hither  and  thither  upon  her 
neck,  as  she  seized  the  opportunity  of  turning  to  her  own  use 
a  sentence  she  had  just  read  in  the  "  Fireside  Herald  "  which 
had  taken  her  fancy — spoken  by  Lady  Blanche  Rivington 
Delaware  to  a  detested  lover  disinclined  to  be  dismissed. 


220  MART  MARSTOK 

"Would  you  please  tell  me  where  to  find  the  second  house- 
maid," said  Mary.     "Mrs.  Perkin  has  sent  me  to  her  room." 

"  Why  don't  Mrs.  Perkin  show  you  the  way,  then  ?  "  re- 
turned the  woman.  "There  ain't  nobody  else  in  the  house  as 
I  knows  on  fit  to  send  to  the  top  o'  them  stairs  with  you.  A 
nice  way  Jemim'  'ill  be  in  when  she  comes  'ome,  to  find  a 
stranger  in  her  room  ! " 

The  same  instant,  however,  the  woman  bethought  herself 
that,  if  what  she  had  said  in  her  haste  were  reported,  it  would 
be  as  much  as  her  place  was  worth ;  and  at  once  thereupon 
she  assumed  a  more  complaisant  tone.  Casting  a  look  at  her 
saucepans,  as  if  to  warn  them  concerning  their  behavior  in  her 
absence,  she  turned  again  to  Mary,  saying  : 

"  I  believe  I  better  show  you  the  way  myself.  It's  easier  to 
take  you  than  find  a  girl  to  do  it.  Them  hussies  is  never  where 
they  oughto  be  !     You  follow  me." 

She  led  the  way  along  two  passages,  and  up  a  back  stair- 
case of  stone — up  and  up,  till  Mary,  unused  to  such  heights, 
began  to  be  aware  of  knees.  Plainly  at  last  in  the  regions  of 
the  roof,  she  thought  her  hill  Difficulty  surmounted  ;  but  the 
cook  turned  a  sharp  corner,  and  Mary  following  found  herself 
once  more  at  the  foot  of  a  stair — very  narrow  and'  steep,  lead- 
ing up  to  one  of  those  old-fashioned  roof-turrets  which  had 
begun  to  appear  in  the  new  houses  of  that  part  of  London. 

"Are  you  taking  me  to  the  clouds,  cook  ?  "  she  said,  will- 
ing to  be  cheerful,  and  to  acknowledge  her  obligation  for 
laborious  guidance. 

"Not  yet  a  bit,  I  hope,"  answered  the  cook;  "we'll  get 
there  soon  enough,  anyhow — escep'  you  belong  to  them 
peculiars  as  wants  to  be  saints  afore  their  time.  If  that's  your 
sort,  don't  you  come  here ;  for  a  wickeder  'ouse,  or  an  'ouse  as 
you  got  to  work  harder  in  o'  Sundays,  no  one  won't  easily  find 
in  this  here  west  end. " 

With  these  words  she  panted  up  the  last  few  steps,  im- 
mediately at  the  top  of  which  was  the  room  sought.  It  was  a 
very  small  one,  scarcely  more  than  holding  the  two  beds. 
Having  lighted  the  gas,  the  cook  left  her ;  and  Mary,  noting 
that  one  of  the  beds  was  not  made  up,  was  glad  to  throw  her- 


HER  POSITION.  221 

self  upon  it.  Covering  herself  with,  her  cloak,  her  traveling- 
rug,  and  the  woolen  counterpane,  she  was  soon  fast  asleep. 

She  was  roused  by  a  cry,  half  of  terror,  half  of  surprise. 
There  stood  the  second  housemaid,  who,  having  been  told  no- 
thing of  her  room-fellow,  .stared  and  gasped. 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  startled  you,"  said  Mary,  who  had 
half  risen,  leaning  on  her  elbow.  "They  ought  to  have  told 
you  there  was  a  stranger  in  your  room." 

The  girl  was  not  long  from  the  country,  and,  in  the  midst 
of  the  worst  vulgarity  in  the  world,  namely,  among  the 
servants  of  the  selfish,  her  manners  had  not  yet  ceased  to  be 
simple.  For  a  moment,  however,  she  seemed  capable  only  of 
panting,  and  pressing  her  hand  on  her  heart. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Mary,  again;  "but  you  see  I 
won't  hurt  you  !    I  don't  look  dangerous,  do  I  ?  " 

"No,  miss,"  answered  the  girl,  with  an  hysterical  laugh. 
"  I  been  to  the  play,  and  there  was  a  man  in  it  was  a  thief,  you 
know,  miss  ! "    And  with  that  she  burst  out  crying. 

It  was  some  time  before  Mary  got  her  quieted,  but,  when 
she  did,  the  girl  was  quite  reasonable.  She  deplored  that  the 
bed  was  not  made  up,  and  would  willingly  have  yielded  hers  ; 
she  was  sorry  she  had  not  a  clean  night-gown  to  offer  her — "  not 
that  it  would  be  fit  for  the  likes  of  you,  miss  ! " — and  showed 
herself  full  of  friendly  ministration.  Mary  being  now  without 
her  traveling-cloak,  Jemima  judged  from  her  dress  she  must 
be  some  grand  visitor's  maid,  vastly  her  superior  in  the  social 
scale  :  if  she  had  taken  her  for  an  inferior,  she  would  doubtless, 
like  most,  have  had  some  airs  handy. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

HER   POSITION". 

Mart  seemed  to  have  but  just  got  to  sleep  again,  when  she 
was  startled  awake  by  the  violent  ringing  of  a  bell,  almost  at 
her  ear. 


222    •  MARY  MARS  TON. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  trouble  yet  a  long  while,  miss  ! "  said  the 
girl,  who  was  already  dressing.  "I've  got  ever  so  many  fires 
to  light,  ere  the'  '11  be  a  thought  of  you  ! " 

Mary  lay  down  again,  and  once  more  fell  fast  asleep. 

She  was  waked  the  third  time  by  the  girl  telling  her  that 
breakfast  was  ready  ;  whereupon  she  rose,  and  made  herself  as 
tidy  as  she  could,  while  Jemima  cleaned  herself  up  a  bit,  and 
was  not  a  little  improved  in  the  process. 

"I  thought,"  she  said,  "as  Mrs.  Perkin  would  'a'  as't  you 
to  your  first  meal  with  her ;  but  she  told  me,  when  I  as't  what 
were  to  be  done  with  you,  as  how  you  must  go  to  the  room,  and 
eat  your  breakfast  with  the  rest  of  us." 

"As  Mrs.  Perkin  pleases,"  said  Mary. 

She  had  before  this  come  to  understand  the  word  of  her 
Master,  that  not  what  enters  into  a  man  defiles  him,  but  only 
what  comes  put  of  him  ;  hence,  that  no  man's  dignity  is  affect- 
ed by  what  another  does  to  him,  but  only  by  what  he  does,  or 
would  like  to  do,  himself. 

She  did,  however,  feel  a  little  shy  on  entering  "the  room," 
where  all  the  livery  and  most  of  the  women  servants  were  al- 
ready seated  at  breakfast.  Two  of  the  men,  with  a  word  to 
each  other,  made  room  for  her  between  them,  and  laughed ; 
but  she  took  no  notice,  and  seated  herself  at  the  bottom  of  the 
table  with  her  companion.  Everything  was  as  clean  and  tidy 
as  heart  could  wish,  and  Mary  was  glad  enough  to  make  a  good 
meal. 

For  a  few  minutes  there  was  loud  talking — from  a  general 
impulse  to  show  off  before  the  stranger ;  then  fell  a  silence,  as 
if  some  feeling  of  doubt  had  got  among  them.  The  least  affect- 
ed by  it  was  the  footman  who  had  opened  the  door  to  her  :  he 
had  witnessed  her  reception  by  Mrs.  Perkin.  Addressing  her 
boldly,  he  expressed  a  hope  that  she  was  not  too  much  fatigued 
by  her  journey.  Mary  thanked  him  in  her  own  natural,  straight- 
forward way,  and  the  consequence  was,  that,  when  he  spoke  to 
her  next,  he  spoke  like  a  gentleman — in  the  tone  natural  to 
him,  that  is,  and  in  the  language  of  the  parlor,  without  any 
mock-politeness.  And,  although  the  way  they  talked  among 
themselves  made  Mary  feel  as  if  she  were  in  a  strange  country, 


HER  POSITION.  223 

with  strange  modes,  not  of  living  merely,  but  of  feeling  and  of 
regarding,  she  received  not  the  smallest  annoyance  during  the 
rest  of  the  meal — which  did  not  last  long :  Mrs.  Perkin  took 
care  of  that. 

For  an  hour  or  more,  after  the  rest  had  scattered  to  their 
respective  duties,  she  was  left  alone.  Then  Mrs.  Perkin  sent 
for  her. 

When  she  entered  her  room,  she  found  her  occupied  with 
the  cook,  and  was  allowed  to  stand  unnoticed. 

"When  shall  I  be  able  to  see  Mrs.  Eedmain,  ma'am  ?"  she 
asked,  when  the  cook  at  length  turned  to  go. 

"  Wait,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Perkin,  with  a  quiet  dignity,  well 
copied,  "until  you  are  addressed,  young  woman." — Then  first 
casting  a  glance  at  her,  and  perhaps  perceiving  on  her  counte- 
nance a  glimmer  of  the  amusement  Mary  felt,  she  began  to 
gather  a  more  correct  suspicion  of  the  sort  of  being  she  might 
possibly  be,  and  hastily  added,  "  Pray,  take  a  seat." 

The  idea  of  making  a  blunder  was  unendurable  to  Mrs. 
Perkin,  and  she  was  most  unwilling  to  believe  she  had  done 
so  ;  but,  even  if  she  had,  to  show  that  she  knew  it  would  only 
be  to  render  it  the  more  difficult  to  recover  her  pride  of  place. 
An  involuntary  twinkle  about  the  corners  of  Mary's  mouth 
made  her  hasten  to  answer  her  question. 

'  " I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  "that  I  can  give  you  no  prospect 
of  an  interview  with  Mrs.  Eedmain  before  three  o'clock.  She 
will  very  likely  not  be  out  of  her  room  before  one. — I  suppose 
you  saw  her  at  Durnmelling  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  Mary,  " — and  at  Testbridge." 

It  kept  growing  on  the  housekeeper  that  she  had  made  a 
mistake — though  to  what  extent  she  sought  in  vain  to  deter- 
mine. 

"You  will  find  it  rather  wearisome  waiting,"  she  said 
next ;  " — would  you  not  like  to  help  me  with  my  work  ?" 

Already  she  had  the  sunflowers  under  her  creative  hands. 

"I  should  be  very  glad — if  I  can  do  it  well  enough  to 
please  you,  ma'am,"  answered  Mary.  "But,"  she  added, 
"would  you  kindly  see  that  Mrs.  Eedmain  is  told,  as  soon  as 
she  wakes,  that  I  am  here  ?  " 


224  MARY  MARSTON. 

"Oblige  me  by  ringing  the  bell,"  said  Mrs.  Perkin.— r 
"  Send  Mrs.  Folter  here." 

A  rather  cross-looking,  red-faced,  thin  woman  appeared, 
whom  she  requested  to  let  her  mistress  know,  as  soon  as 
was  proper,  that  there  was  a  young  person  in  the  house 
who  said  she  had  come  from  Testbridge  by  appointment  to 
see  her. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Folter,  with  a  supercilious  yet  famil- 
iar nod  to  Mary  ;  "I'll  take  care  she  knows." 

Mary  passed  what  would  have  been  a  dreary  morning  to 
one  dependent  on  her  company.  It  was  quite  three  o'clock 
when  she  was  at  length  summoned  to  Mrs.  Eedmain's  boudoir. 
Folter,  who  was  her  guide  thither,  lingered,  in  the  soft  closing 
of  the  door,  long  enough  to  learn  that  her  mistress  received  the 
young  person  with  a  kiss — almost  as  much  to  Mary's  surprise 
as  Folter's  annoyance,  which  annoyance  partly  to  relieve, 
partly  to  pass  on  to  Mrs.  Perkin,  whose  reception  of  Mary  she 
had  learned,  Folter  hastened  to  report  the  fact,  and  succeeded 
thereby  in  occasioning  no  small  uneasiness  in  the  bosom  of  the 
housekeeper,  who  was  almost  as  much  afraid  of  her  mistress  as 
the  other  servants  were  of  herself.  Some  time  she  spent  in 
expectant  trepidation,  but  gradually,  as  nothing  came  of  it, 
calmed  her  fears,  and  concluded  that  her  behavior  to  Mary 
had  been  quite  correct,  seeing  the  girl  had  made  it  no  ground 
of  complaint. 

But,  although  Hesper,  being  at  the  moment  in  tolerable 
spirits,  in  reaction  from  her  depression  of  the  day  before,  re- 
ceived Mary  with  a  kiss,  she  did  not  ask  her  a  question  about 
her  journey,  or  as  to  how  she  had  spent  the  night.  She  was 
there,  and  looking  all  right,  and  that  was  enough.  On  the 
other  hand,  she  did  proceed  to  have  her  at  once  properly  set- 
tled. 

The  little  room  appointed  her  looked  upon  a  small  court  or 
yard,'  and  was  dark,  but  otherwise  very  comfortable.  As  soon 
as  she  was  left  to  herself,  she  opened  her  boxes,  put  her  things 
away  in  drawers  and  wardrobe,  arranged  her  books  within  easy 
reach  of  the  low  chair  Hesper  had  sent  for  from  the  drawing- 
room  for  her,  and  sat  down  to  read  a  little,  brood  a  little,  and 


HER  POSITION.  225 

build  a  few  castles  in  the  air,  more  lovely  than  evanescent : 
no  other  house  is  so  like  its  builder  as  this  sort  of  castle. 

About  eight  o'clock,  Folter  summoned  her  to  go  to  Mrs. 
Eedmain.  By  this  time  she  was  tired  :  she  was  accustomed  to 
tea  in  the  afternoon,  and  since  her  dinner  with  the  house- 
keeper she  had  had  nothing. 

She  found  Mrs.  Eedmain  dressed  for  the  evening.  As  soon 
as  Mary  entered,  she  dismissed  Folter. 

"lam  going  out  to  dinner,"  she  said.  "Are  you  quite 
comfortable  ?  " 

"I  am  rather  cold,  and  should  like  some  tea,"  said  Mary. 

"  My  poor  girl  !  have  you  had  no  tea  ?  "  said  Hesper,  with 
some  concern,  and  more  annoyance.  "  You  are  looking  quite 
pale,  I  see  !    When  did  you  have  anything  to  eat  ?  " 

"I  had  a  good  dinner  at  one  o'clock,"  replied  Mary,  with  a 
rather  weary  smile. 

"  This  is  dreadful ! "  said  Hesper.  "  What  can  the  servants 
be  about ! " 

"  And,  please,  may  I  have  a  little  fire  ?"  begged  Mary. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Hesper,  knitting  her  brows  with  a 
look  of  slight  anguish.  "Is  it  possible  you  have  been  sitting 
all  day  without  one  ?  Why  did  you  not  ring  the  bell  ?  "  She 
took  one  of  her  hands.     "<  You  are  frozen  ! "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  no  !"  answered  Mary;  "I  am  far  from  that.  You 
see  nobody  knows  yet  what  to  do  with  me. — You  hardly  know 
yourself,"  she  added;  with  a  merry  look.  "  But,  if  you  wouldn't 
mind  telling  Mrs.  Perkin  where  you  wish  me  to  have  my  meals, 
that  would  put  it  all  right,  I  think." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Hesper,  in  a  tone  that  for  her  was  sharp. 
"  Will  you  ring  the  bell  ?  " 

She  sent  for  the  housekeeper,  who  presently  appeared — lank 
and  tall,  with  her  head  on  one  side  like  a  lamp-post  in  distress, 
but  calm  and  prepared — a  dumb  fortress,  with  a  live  garri- 
son. 

"Lwish  you,  Mrs.  Perkin,  to  arrange  with  Miss  Marston 
about  her  meals." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  Mrs.  Perkin,  with  sedatest  utter- 
ance. 


226  MART  MARSTON. 

"Mrs.  Perkin,"  said  Mary,  "I  don't  want  to  be  trouble- 
some ;  tell  me  what  will  suit  you  best." 

But  Mrs.  Perkin  did  not  even  look  at  her ;  standing  straight 
as  a  rush,  she  kept  her  eyes  on  her  mistress. 

"  Do  you  desire,  ma'am,  that  Miss  Marston  should  have  her 
meals  in  the  housekeeper's  room  ?  "  she  asked. 

"That  must  be  as  Miss  Marston  pleases,"  answered  Hesper. 
"  If  she  prefer  them  in  her  own,  you  will  see  they  are  properly 
sent  up." 

"  Very  well,  ma'am  ! — Then  I  wait  Miss  Marston's  orders," 
said  Mrs.  Perkin,  and  turned  to  leave  the  room.  But,  when 
her  mistress  spoke  again,  she  turned  again  and  stood.  It  was 
Mary,  however,  whom  Hesper  addressed. 

"  Mary,"  she  said,  apparently  foreboding  worse  from  the 
tone  of  the  housekeeper's  obedience  than  from  her  occurred 
neglect,  "  when  I  am  alone,  you  shall  take  your  meals  with 
me  ;  and  when  I  have  any  one  with  me,  Mrs.  Perkin  will  see 
that  they  are  sent  to  your  room.     We  will  settle  it  so." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mary. 

"  Very  well,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Perkin. 

"  Send  Miss  Marston  some  tea  directly,"  said  Hesper. 

Scarcely  was  Mrs.  Perkin  gone  when  the  brougham  was  an- 
nounced. Mary  returned  to  her  room,  and  in  a  little  while  tea, 
with  thin  bread  and  butter  in  limited  quantity,  was  brought  her. 
But  it  was  brought  by  Jemima,  whose  face  wore  a  cheerful 
smile  over  the  tray  she  carried  :  she,  at  least,  did  not  grudge 
Mary  her  superior  place  in  the  household. 

"Do  you  think,  Jemima,"  asked  Mary,  "you  could  man- 
age to  answer  my  bell  when  I  ring  ?  " 

"  I  should  only  be  too  glad,  miss  ;  it  would  be  nothing  but 
a  pleasure  to  me ;  and  I'd  jump  to  it  if  I  was  in  the  way  ;  but 
if  I  was  up  stairs,  which  this  house  ain't  a  place  to  hear  bells 
in,  sure  I  am  nobody  would  let  me  know  as  you  was  a-ringin' ; 
and  if  you  was  to  think  as  how  I  was  giving  of  myself  airs, 
like  some  people  not  far  out  of  this  square,  I  should  be  both 
sorry  and  ashamed — an'  that's  more'n  I'd  say  for  my  place  to 
Mrs.  Perkin,  miss." 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  of  that,  Jemima,"  returned  Mary. 


HER  POSITION.  227 

tf  If  yon  don't  answer  when  I  ring,  I  shall  know,  as  well  as  if 
yon  told  me,  that  yon  either  don't  hear  or  can't  come  at  the 
moment.     I  sha'n't  be  exacting." 

"Don't  yon  be  af eared  to  ring,  miss  ;  I'll  answer  yonr  bell 
as  often  as  I  hear  it." 

"  Conld  yon  bring  me  a  loaf  ?  I  have  had  nothing  since 
Mrs.  Perkin's  dinner  ;  and  this  bread  and  bntter  is  rather  too 
delicately  cut,"  said  Mary. 

"Laws,  miss,  yonmnst  be  nigh  clemmed !"  said  the  girl ; 
and,  hastening  away,  she  soon  returned  with  a  loaf,  and  butter, 
and  a  pot  of  marmalade  sent  by  the  cook,  who  was  only  too 
glad  to  open  a  safety-valve  to  her  pleasure  at  the  discomfiture 
of  Mrs.  Perkin. 

" When  would  you  like  your  breakfast,  miss?"  asked  Je- 
mima, as  she  removed  the  tea-things. 

"Any  time  convenient,"  replied  Mary. 

"It's  much  the  same  to  me,  miss,  so  it's  not  before  there's 
bilin'  water.     You'll  have  it  in  bed,  miss  ?  " 

"No,  thank  you.     I  never  do." 

"  You'd  better,  miss." 

"I  could  not  think  of  it." 

"  It  makes  no  more  trouble — less,  miss,  than  if  I  had  to 
get  it  when  the  room-breakfast  was  on.  I've  got  to  get  the 
things  together  anyhow  ;  and  why  shouldn't  you  have  it  as  well 
as  Mrs.  Perkin,  or  that  ill-tempered  cockatoo,  Mrs.  Folter  ? 
You're  a  lady,  and  that's  more'n  can  be  said  for  either  of  them 
— justly,  that  is." 

"You  don't  mean,"  said  Mary,  surprised  out  of  her  discre- 
tion, "  that  the  housekeeper  and  the  lady's-maid  have  break- 
fast in  bed  ?  " 

"It's  every  blessed  lnornm'  as  I've  got  to  take  it  up  to 
'em,  miss,  upon  my  word  of  honor,  with  a  soft-biled  egg, 
or  a  box  o'  sardines,  new-opened,  or  a  slice  o'  breakfast 
bacon,  streaky.  An'  I  do  not  think  as  it  belongs  proper 
to  my  place ;  only  you  see,  miss,  the  kitchen-maid  has 
got  to  do  it  for  the  cook,  an'  if  I  don't,  who  is  there  ? 
It's  not  them  would  let  the  scullery- maid  come  near  them  in 
their  beds. " 


228  MARY  MARSTOK 

"Does  Mrs.  Perkin  know  that  the  cook  and  the  lady's-maid 
have  it  as  well  as  herself  ?" 

"Not  she,  miss;  she'd  soon  make  their  coffee  too  'ot ! 
She's  the  only  lady  down  stairs — she  is  !  No  more  don't  Mrs. 
Folter  know  as  the  cook  has  hers,  only,  if  she  did,  it  wouldn't 
make  no  differ,  for  she  daren't  tell.  And  cook,  to  be  sure,  it 
ain't  her  breakfast,  only  a  cup  o'  tea  an'  a  hit  o'  toast,  to  get 
her  heart  up  first." 

""Well,"  said  Mary,  "I  certainly  shall  not  add  another  to 
the  breakfasts  in  bed.  But  I  must  trouble  you  all  the  same  to 
bring  it  me  here.  I  will  make  my  bed,  and  do  out  the  room 
myself,  if  you  will  come  and  finish  it  off  for  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed,  miss,  you  mustn't  do  that !  Think  what 
they'd  say  of  you  down  stairs  !  They'd  despise  you  down- 
right!" 

"  I  shall  do  it,  Jemima.  If  they  were  servants  of  the  right 
sort,  I  should  like  to  have  their  good  opinion,  and  they  would 
think  all  the  more  of  me  for  doing  my  share ;  as  it  is,  I  should 
count  it  a  disgrace  to  care  a  straw  what  they  thought.  We 
must  do  our  work,  and  not  mind  what  people  say." 

"Yes,  miss,  that's  what  my  mother  used  to  say  to  my 
father,  when  he  wouldn't  be  reasonable.  But  I  must  go,  miss, 
or  I  shall  catch  it  for  gossiping  with  you — that's  what  she'll 
call  it. 

When  Jemima  was  gone,  Mary  fell  a-thinking  afresh.  It 
was  all  very  well,  she  said  to  herself,  to  talk  about  doing  her 
work,  but  here  she  was  with  scarce  a  shadow  of  an  idea  what 
her  work  was  !  Had  any  work  been  given  her  to  do  in  this 
house  ?  Had  she  presumed  in  coming — anticipated  the  guid- 
ance of  Providence,  and  was  she  therefore  now  where  she  had 
no  right  to  be  ?  She  could  not  tell ;  but,  anyhow,  here  she 
was,  and  no  one  could  be  anywhere  without  the  fact  involving 
its  own  duty.  Even  if  she  had  put  herself  there,  and  was  to 
blame  for  being  there,  that  did  not  free  her  from  the  obliga- 
tions of  the  position,  and  she  was  willing  to  do  whatever  should 
now  be  given  her  to  do.  God  was  not  a  hard  master ;  if  she 
had  made  a  mistake,  he  would  pardon  her,  and  either  give  her 
work  here,  where  she  found  herself,  or  send  her  elsewhere.     I 


MR.  AND  MRS.  EELMER.  229 

need  not  say  that  thinking  was  not  all  her  care ;  for  she 
thought  in  the  presence  of  Him  who,  because  he  is  always  set- 
ting our  wrong  things  right,  is  called  God  our  Saviour. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

ME.    AID    MRS.    HELMER. 

The  next  morning,  Mary  set  out  to  find  Letty,  from  whom, 
as  I  have  said,  she  had  heard  but  twice  since  her  marriage. 
Mary  had  written  again  about  a  month  ago,  but  had  had  no 
reply.  The  sad  fact  was,  that,  ever  since  she  left  Testbridge, 
Letty,  for  a  long  time,  without  knowing  it,  had  been  going 
down  hill.  There  have  been  many  whose  earnestness  has  van- 
ished with  the  presence  of  those  whose  influence  awoke  it. 
Letty's  better  self  seemed  to  have  remained  behind  with  Mary; 
and  not  even  if  he  had  been  as  good  as  she  thought  him,  could 
Tom  himself  have  made  up  to  her  for  the  loss  of  such  a  friend. 

But  Letty  had  not  found  marriage  at  all  the  grand  thing 
she  had  expected.  With  the  faithfulness  of  a  woman,  how- 
ever, she  attributed  her  disappointment  to  something  inherent 
in  marriage,  nowise  affecting  the  man  whom  marriage  had  made 
her  husband. 

That  he  might  be  near  the  center  to  which  what  little  work 
he  did  gravitated,  Tom  had  taken  a  lodging  in  a  noisy  street, 
as  unlike  all  that  Letty  had  been  accustomed  to  as  anything 
London,  except  in  its  viler  parts,  could  afford.  Never  a  green 
thing  was  to  be  looked  upon  in  any  direction.  ISot  a  sweet 
sound  was  to  be  heard.  The  sun,  at  this  time  of  the  year,  was 
seldom  to  be  seen  in  London  anywhere  ;  and  in  Lydgate  Street, 
even  when  there  was  no  fog,  it  was  but  askance,  and  for  a  brief 
portion  of  the  day,  that  he  shone  upon  that  side  where  stood 
their  dusty  windows.  And  then  the  noise  ! — a  ceaseless  torrent 
of  sounds,  of  stony  sounds,  of  iron  sounds,  of  grinding  sounds, 
of  clashing  sounds,  of  yells  and  cries — of  all  deafening  and 
unpoetic  discords  !     Letty  had  not  much  poetry  in  her,  and 


230    -  MARY  MARSTON. 

needed  what  could  be  had  from  the  outside  so  much  the  more. 
It  is  the  people  of  a  land  "without  springs  that  must  have  cis- 
terns. It  is  the  poetic  people  without  poetry  that  pant  and 
pine  for  the  country.  When  such  get  hold  of  a  poet,  they 
expect  him  to  talk  poetry,  or,  at  least,  to  talk  about  poetry  !  I 
fancy  poets  do  not  read  much  poetry,  and  except  to  their  peers 
do  not  often  care  to  talk  about  it.  But  to  one  like  Letty,  how- 
ever little  she  may  understand  or  even  be  aware  of  the  need, 
the  poetic  is  as  necessary  as  rain  in  summer  ;  while,  to  one  so 
little  skilled  in  the  finding  of  it,  there  was  none  visible,  audi- 
ble, or  perceptible  about  her — except,  indeed,  what,  of  poorest 
sort  for  her  uses,  she  might  discover  bottled  in  some  circulating 
library  :  there  was  one — blessed  proximity  ! — within  ten  min- 
utes' walk  of  her. 

Once  a  week  or  so,  some  weeks  oftcner,  Tom  would  take 
her  to  the  play,  and  that  was,  indeed,  a  happiness — not  because 
of  the  pleasure  of  the  play  only  or  chiefly,  though  that  was 
great,  but  in  the  main  because  she  had  Tom  beside  her  all  the 
time,  and  mixed  up  Tom  with  the  play,  and  the  play  with 
Tom. 

Alas  !  Tom  was .  not  half  so  dependent  upon  her,  neither 
derived  half  so  much  pleasure  from  her  company.  Some  of 
his  evenings  every  week  he  spent  at  houses  where  those  who 
received  him  had  not  the  faintest  idea  whether  he  had  a  wife 
or  not,  and  cared  as  little,  for  it  would  have  made  no  differ- 
ence :  they  would  not  have  invited  her.  Small,  silly,  conceited 
Tom,  regarding  himself  as  a  somebody,  was  more  than  content 
to  be  asked  to  such  people's  houses.  He  thought  he  went  as  a 
lion,  whereas  it  was  merely  as  a  jackal  :  so  great  is  the  love  of 
some  for  wild  beasts  in  general,  that  they  even  think  something 
of  jackals.  He  was  aware  of  no  insult  to  himself  in  asking  him 
whether  as  a  lion  or  any  other  wild  beast,  nor  of  any  to  his  wife 
and  himself  together  in  not  asking  her  with  him.  While  she 
sat  in  her  dreary  lodging,  dingily  clad  and  lonely,  Tom,  dressed 
in  the  height  of  the  fashion,  would  be  strolling  about  grand 
rooms,  now  exchanging  a  flying  shot  of  recognition,  now  paus- 
ing to  pay  a  compliment  to  this  lady  on  her  singing,  to  that  on 
her  verses,  to  a  third,  where  he  dared,  on  her  dress  ;  for  good- 


ME.  AND  MBS.  HELMER.  231 

nature d  Tom  was  profuse  of  compliments,  not  without  a  de- 
gree and  kind  of  honesty  in  them  ;  now  singing  one  of  his  own 
songs  to  the  accompaniment  of  some  gracious  goddess,  now  ac- 
companying the  same  or  some  other  gracious  goddess  as  she 
sang — for  Tom  could  do  that  well  enough  for  people  without  a 
conscience  in  their  music  ;  now  in  the  corner  of  a  conservatory, 
now  in  a  cozy  little  third  room  behind  a  back  drawing-room, 
talking  nonsense  with  some  lady  foolish  enough  to  be  amused 
with  his  folly.  Tom  meant  no  harm  and  did  not  do  much — 
was  only  a  human  butterfly,  amusing  himself  with  other  crea- 
tures of  a  day,  who  have  no  notion  that  death  can  not  kill 
them,  or  they  might  perhaps  be  more  miserable  than  they  are. 
They  think,  if  they  think  at  all,  that  it  is  life,  strong  in  them, 
that  makes  them  forget  death ;  whereas,  in  truth,  it  is  death, 
strong  in  them,  that  makes  them  forget  life.  Like  a  humming- 
bird, all  sparkle  and  flash,  Tom  flitted  through  the  tropical 
delights  of  such  society  as  his  "  uncommon  good  luck  "  had 
gained  him  admission  to,  forming  many  an  evanescent  friend- 
ship, and  taking  many  a  graceful  liberty  for  which  his  pleasant 
looks,  confident  manners,  and  free  carriage  were  his  indemnity 
— for  Tom  seemed  to  have  been  born  to  show  what  a  nice  sort 
of  a  person  a  fool,  well  put  together,  may  be — with  his  high- 
bred air,  and  his  ready  replies,  for  he  had  also  a  little  of  that 
social  element,  once  highly  valued,  now  less  countenanced,  and 
rare — I  mean  wit. 

He  had,  indeed,  plenty  of  all  sorts  of  brains ;  but  no  amount 
of  talent  could  reveal  to  him  the  reason  or  the  meaning  of  the 
fact  that  wedded  life  was  less  interesting  than  courtship  ;  for 
the  former,  the  reason  lay  in  himself,  and  of  himself  proper 
he  knew,  as  I  have  said,  next  to  nothing  ;  while  the  latter,  the 
meaning  of  the  fact,  is  profound  as  eternity.  He  had  no  no- 
tion that,  when  he  married,  his  life  was  thereby,  in  a  lofty  and 
blessed  sense,  forfeit ;  that,  to  save  his  wife's  life,  he  must  yield 
his  own,  she  doing  the  same  for  him — for  God  himself  can  save 
no  other  way.  But  the  notion  of  any  saving,  or  the  need,  of  it, 
was  far  from  Tom  ;  nor  had  Letty,  for  her  part,  any  thought 
of  it  either,  except  from  the  tyranny  of  her  aunt.  Not  the 
less,  in  truth,  did  they  both  want  saving — very  much  saving — 


232  MARY  MARSTON. 

before  life  could  be  to  either  of  them  a  good  thing.  It  is  only- 
its  inborn  possibility  of  and  divine  tendency  toward  blossom- 
ing that  constitute  life  a  good  thing.  Life's  blossom  is  its 
salvation,  its  redemption,  the  justification  of  its  existence — 
and  is  a  thing  far  off  with  most  of  us.  For  Tom,  his  highest 
notion  of  life  was  to  be  recognized  by  the  world  for  that  which 
he  had  chosen  as  his  idea  of  himself — to  have  the  reviews  allow 
him  a  poet,  not  grudgingly,  nor  with  abatement  of  any  sort, 
but  recognizing  him  as  the  genius  he  must  contrive  to  believe 
himself,  or  "perish  in"  his  "self-contempt."  Then  would  he 
live  and  die  in  the  blessed  assurance  that  his  name  would  be  for 
ever  on  the  lips  and  in  the  hearts  of  that  idol  of  fools  they  call 
posterity — divinity  as  vague  as  the  old  gray  Fate,  and  less  noble, 
inasmuch  as  it  is  but  the  supposed  concave  whence  is  to  rebound 
the  man's  own  opinion  of  himself. 

While  jewelly  Tom  was  idling  away  time  which  yet  could 
hardly  be  called  precious,  his  little  brown  wife,  as  I  have  said, 
sat  at  home — such  home  as  a  lodging  can  be  for  a  wife  whose 
husband  finds  his  interest  mainly  outside  of  it— inquired  after 
by  nobody,  thought  of  by  nobody,  hardly  even  taken  up  by  her 
own  poor,  weary  self ;  now  trying  in  vain  after  interest  in  the 
feeble  trash  she  was  reading ;  now  getting  into  the  story  for 
the  last  half  of  a  chapter,  to  find  herself,  when  the  scene 
changed  at  the  next,  as  far  out  and  away  and  lost  as  ever ; 
now  dropping  the  book  on  her  knee,  to  sit  musing — if,  indeed, 
such  poor  mental  vagaries  as  hers  can  be  called  even  musing  ! — 
ignorant  what  was  the  matter  with  her,  hardly  knowing  that 
anything  was  the  matter,  and  yet  pining  morally,  spiritually, 
and  psychically ;.  now  wondering  when  Tom  would  be  home  ; 
now  trying  to  congratulate  herself  on  his  being  such  a  favorite, 
and  thinking  what  an  honor  it  was  to  a  poor  country  girl  like 
her  to  be  the  wife  of  a  man  so  much  courted  by  the  best  society 
— for  she  never  doubted  that  the  people  to  whose  houses  Tom 
went  desired  his  company  from  admiration  of  his  writings. 
She  had  not  an  idea  that  never  a  soul  of  them  or  of  their  guests 
cared  a  straw  about  what  he  wrote — except,  indeed,  here  and 
there,  a  young  lady  in  her  first  season,  who  thought  it  a  grand 
thing  to  know  an  author,  as  poor  Letty  thought  it  a  grand 


MB.  AND  MRS.  EELMEB.  233 

thing  to  be  the  wife  of  one.  Hail  to  the  coming  time  when, 
those  who  write  books  outnumbering  those  who  do  not,  a  man 
will  be  thought  no  more  of  because  he  can  write  than  because 
he  can  sit  a  horse  or  brew  beer  !  In  that  happy  time  the  true 
writer  will  be  neither  an  atom  the  more  regarded  nor  disre- 
garded ;  he  will  only  be  less  troubled  with  birthday  books,  re- 
quests for  autographs,  and  such-like  irritating  attentions. 
From  that  time,  also,  it  may  be,  the  number  of  writers  will 
begin  to  diminish  ;  for  then,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  men  will  begin 
to  see  that  it  is  better  to  do  the  inferior  thing  well  than  the 
superior  thing  after  a  middling  fashion.  The  man  who  would 
not  rather  be  a  good  shoemaker  than  a  middling  author  would 
be  no  honor  to  the  shoemakers,  and  can  hardly  be  any  to  the 
authors.  I  have  the  comfort  that  in  this  all  authors  will  agree 
with  me,  for  which  of  us  is  now  able  to  see  himself  middling  ? 
Honorable  above  all  honor  that  authorship  can  give  is  he  who 
can. 

It  was  through  some  of  his  old  college  friends  that  Tom 
had  thus  easily  stepped  into  the  literary  profession.  They 
were  young  men  with  money  and  friends  to  back  them,  who, 
having  taken  to  literature  as  soon  as  they  chipped  the  univer- 
sity shell,  were  already  in  the  full  swing  of  periodical  produc- 
tion, when  Tom,  to  quote  two  rather  contradictory  utterances 
of  his  mother,  ruined  his  own  prospects  and  made  Letty's  for- 
tune by  marrying  her.  I  can  not  say,  however,  that  they  had 
found  him  remunerative  employment.  The  best  they  had  done 
for  him  was  to  bring  him  into  such  a  half  sort  of  connection 
with  a  certain  weekly  paper  that  now  and  then  he  got  some- 
thing printed  in  it,  and  now  and  then,  with  the  joke  of  ac- 
knowledging an  obligation  irremunerable,  the  editor  would  hand 
him  what  he.  called  an  honorarium,  but  what  in  reality  was  a 
five-pound  note.  When  such  an  event  occurred,  Tom  would 
feel  his  bosom  swell  with  the  imagined  dignity  of  supporting  a 
family  by  literary  labor,  and,  forgetful  of  the  sparseness  of  his 
mother's  doles,  who  delighted  to  make  the  young  couple  feel, 
the  bitterness  of  dependence,  would  immediately,  on  the 
strength  of  it,  invite  his  friends  to  supper — not  at  the  lodging 
where  Letty  sat  lonely,  but  at  some  tavern  frequented  by  peo- 


234:  MARY  MARSTON. 

pie  of  the  craft.  It  was  at  such,  times,  and  in  the  company  of 
men  certainly  not  better  than  himself,  that  Tom's  hopes  were 
brightest,  and  his  confidence  greatest :  therefore  such  seasons 
were  those  of  his  highest  bliss.  Especially,  when  his  sensitive 
but  poor  imagination  was  stimulated  from  the  nerve-side  of  the 
brain,  was  Tom  in  his  glory  ;  and  it  was  not  the  "few  glasses 
of  champagne,"  of  which  he  talked  so  airily,  that  had  all  the 
honor  of  crowning  him  king  of  fate  and  poet  of  the  world. 
Long  after  midnight,  upon  such  and  many  other  occasions, 
would  he  and  his  companions  sit  laughing  and  jesting  and 
drinking,  some  saying  witty  things,  and  all  of  them  foolish 
things  and  worse ;  inventing  stories  apropos  of  the  foibles  of 
friends,  and  relating  anecdotes  which  grew  more  and  more 
irreverent  to  God  and  women  as  the  night  advanced,  and  the 
wine  gained  power,  and  the  shame-faced  angels  of  their  true 
selves,  made  in  the  image  of  God,  withdrew  into  the  dark  ; 
until  at  last,  between  night  and  morning,  Tom  would  reel 
gracefully  home,  using  all  the  power  of  his  will — the  best  use 
to  which  it  ever  was  put — to  subdue  the  drunkenness  of  which, 
even  in  its  embrace,  he  had  the  lingering  honor  to  be  ashamed, 
that  he  might  face  his  wife  with  the  appearance  of  the  gentle- 
man he  was  anxious  she  should  continue  to  consider  him. 

It  was  an  unhappy  thing  for  Tom  that  his  mother,  having 
persuaded  her  dying  husband,  "for  Tom's  sake,"  to  leave  the 
money  in  her  power,  should  not  now  have  carried  her  tyranny 
further,  and  refused  him  money  altogether.  He  would  then 
have  been  compelled  to  work  harder,  and  to  use  what  he  made 
in  procuring  the  necessaries  of  life.  There  might  have  been 
some  hope  for  him  then.  As  it  was,  his  profession  was  the 
mere  grasping  after  the  honor  of  a  workman  without  the  doing 
of  the  work ;  while  the  little  he  gained  by  it  was,  at  the  same 
time,  more  than  enough  to  foster  the  self-deception  that  he  did 
something  in  the  world.  "With  the  money  he  gave  her,  which 
was  never  more  than  a  part  of  what  his  mother  sent  him, 
Letty  had  much  ado  to  make  both  ends  meet ;  and,  while  he 
ran  in  debt  to  his  tailor  and  bootmaker,  she  never  had  anything 
new  to  wear.  She  did  sometimes  wish  he  would  take  her  out 
with  him  a  little  oftener  of  an  evening  ;  for  sometimes  she  felt 


MR.  AND  MRS.   EELMER.  235 

so  lonely  as  to  be  quite  unable  to  amuse  herself  :  her  resources 
were  not  many  in  her  position,  and  fewer  still  in  herself ;  but 
she  always  reflected  that  he  could  not  afford  it,  and  it  was  long 
ere  she  began  to  have  any  doubt  or  uneasiness  about  him — long 
before  she  began  even  to  imagine  it  might  be  well  if  he  spent 
his  evenings  with  her,  or,  at  least,  in  other  ways  and  other  com- 
pany than  he  did.  When  first  such  a  thought  presented  itself, 
she  banished  it  as  a  disgrace  to  herself  and  an  insult  to  him. 
But  it  was  no  wonder  if  she  found  marriage  dull,  poor  child  ! 
— after  such  expectations,  too,  from  her  Tom  ! 

What  a  pity  it  seems  to  our  purblind  eyes  that  so  many  girls 
should  be  married  before  they  are  women  !  The  woman  comes  at 
length,  and  finds  she  is  forestalled — that  the  prostrate  and  mu- 
tilated Dagon  of  a  girl's  divinity  is  all  that  is  left  her  to  do  the 
best  with  she  can  !  But,  thank  God,  in  the  faithfully  accepted 
and  encountered  responsibility,  the  woman  must  at  length  be- 
come aware  that  she  has  under  her  feet  an  ascending  stair  by 
which  to  climb  to  the  woman  of  the  divine  ideal. 

There  was  at  present,  however,  nothing  to  be  called  thought 
in  the  mind  of  Letty.  She  had  even  lost  much  of  what  faculty 
of  thinking  had  been  developed  in  her  by  the  care  of  Cousin 
Godfrey.  That  had  speedily  followed  the  decay  of  the  aspira- 
tion kindled  in  her  by  Mary.  Her  whole  life  now — as  much  of 
it,  that  is,  as  was  awake — was  Tom,  and  only  Tom.  Her  whole 
day  was  but  the  continuous  and  little  varied  hope  of  his  pres- 
ence. Most  of  the  time  she  had  a  book  in  her  hands,  but  ever 
again  book  and  hands  would  sink  into  her  lap,  and  she  would  sit 
staring  before  her  at  nothing.  She  was  not  unhappy,  she  was 
only  not  happy.  At  first  it  was  a  speechless  delight  to  have 
as  many  novels  as  she  pleased,  and  she  thought  Tom  the  very 
prince  of  bounty  in  not  merely  permitting  her  to  read  them, 
but  bringing  them  to  her,  one  after  the  other,  sometimes  two 
at  once,  in  spendthrift  profusion.  The  first  thing  that  made 
her  aware  she  was  not  cpiite  happy  was  the  discovery  that  novels 
were  losing  their  charm,  that  they  were  not  sufficient  to  make 
her  day  pass,  that  they  were  only  dessert,  and  she  had  no  din- 
ner. When  it  came  to  difficulty  in  going  on  with  a  new  one 
long  enough  to  get  interested  in  it,  she  sighed  heavily,  and  be- 


236  MARY  MARSTOK 

gan  to  think  that  perhaps  life  was  rather  a  dreary  thing — at  least 
considerably  diluted  with  the  unsatisfactory.  How  many  of  my 
readers  feel  the  same  !  How  few  of  them  will  recognize  that 
the  state  of  things  would  indeed  be  desperate  were  it  otherwise  ! 
How  many  would  go  on  and  on  being  only  butterflies,  but  for 
life's  dismay  !  And  who  would  choose  to  be  a  butterfly,  even 
if  life  and  summer  and  the  flowers  were  to  last  for  ever ! 

"I  would/'  I  fancy  this  and  that  reader  saying. 

"Then,"  I  answer,  "the  only  argument  you  are  equal  to, 
is  the  fact  that  life  nor  summer  nor  the  flowers  do  last  for 
ever." 

"I  suppose  I  am  made  a  butterfly,"  do  you  say  ?  "seeing 
I  prefer  to  be  one." 

"  Ah  !  do  you  say  so,  indeed  ?  Then  you  begin  to  excuse 
yourself,  and  what  does  that  mean  ?  It  means  that  you  are  no 
butterfly,  for  a  butterfly — no,  nor  an  angel  in  heaven — could 
never  begin  excusing  the  law  of  its  existence.  Butterfly- 
brother,  the  hail  will  be  upon  you." 

I  may  not  then  pity  Letty  that  she  had  to  discover  that 
novels  taken  alone  serve  one  much  as  sweetmeats  ad  libitum 
do  children,  nor  that  she  had  to  prove  that  life  has  in  it  that 
spiritual  quinine,  precious  because  bitter,  whose  part  it  is  to 
wake  the  higher  hunger. 

Tom  talked  of  himself  as  on  the  staff  of  "The  Firefly  " — such 
was  the  name  of  the  newspaper  whose  editor  sometimes  paid 
him — a  weekly  of  great  pretense,  which  took  upon  itself  the 
mystery  of  things,  as  if  it  were  God's  spy.  It  was  popular  in 
a  way,  chiefly  in  fashionable  circles.  As  regarded  the  opinions 
it  promulgated,.  I  never  heard  one,  who  understood  the  par- 
ticular question  at  any  time  handled,  say  it  was  correct.  Its 
writers  were  mostly  young  men,  and  their  passion  was  to  say 
clever  things.  If  a  friend's  book  came  in  their  way,  it  was 
treated  worse  or  better  than  that  of  a  stranger,  but  with  im- 
partial disregard  for  truth  in  either  case ;  yet  many  were  the 
authors  who  would  go  up  endless  back  stairs  to  secure  from 
that  paper  a  flattering  criticism,  and  then  be  as  proud  of  it 
as  if  it  had  been  the  genuine  and  unsought  utterance  of  a  true 
man's  conviction  ;  and  many  were  the  men,  immeasurably  the 


MB.  AND  MRS.  HELMEB.  237 

superiors  of  the  reviewers,  and  in  a  general  way  acquainted 
with  their  character,  who  would  accept  as  conclusive  upon  the 
merits  of  a  book  the  opinions  they  gave,  nor  ever  question  a 
mode  of  quotation  by  which  a  book  was  made  to  show  itself 
whatever  the  reviewer  chose  to  call  it.  A  scandalous  rumor 
of  any  kind,  especially  from  the  region  styled  "high  life," 
often  false,  and  always  incorrect,  was  the  delight  both  of  the 
paper  and  of  its  readers ;  and  the  interest  it  thus  awoke, 
united  to  the  fear  it  thus  caused,  was  mainly  what  procured 
for  such  as  were  known  to  be  employed  upon  it  the  entree  of 
houses  where,  if  they  had  had  a  private  existence  only,  their 
faces  would  never  have  been  seen.  But,  to  do  Tom  justice,  he 
wrote  nothing  of  this  sort :  he  was  neither  ill-natured  nor 
experienced  enough  for  that  department ;  what  he  did  write 
was  clever,  shallow  sketches  of  that  same  society  into  whose 
charmed  precincts  he  was  but  so  lately  a  comer  that  much  was 
to  him  interesting  which  had  long  ceased  to  be  observed  by 
eyes  turned  horny  with  the  glare  of  the  world's  footlights  ;  and, 
while  these  sketches  pleased  the  young  people  especially,  even 
their  jaded  elders  enjoyed  the  sparkling  reflex  of  what  they 
called  life,  as  seen  by  an  outsider  ;  for  they  were  thereby  en- 
abled to  feel  for  a  moment  a  slight  interest  in  themselves 
objectively,  along  with  a  galvanized  sense  of  existence  as  the 
producers  of  history.  These  sketches  did  more  for  the  paper 
than  the  editor  was  willing  to  know  or  acknowledge. 

But  "  The  Firefly  "  produced  also  a  little  art  on  its  own  ac- 
count— not  always  very  original,  but,  at  least,  not  a  sucking  of 
life  from  the  labor  of  others,  as  is  most  of  that  parasitic  thing 
miscalled  criticism.  In  this  branch  Tom  had  a  share,  in  the 
shape  of  verse.  A  ready  faculty  was  his,  but  one  seldom 
roused  by  immediate  interest,  and  never  by  insight.  It  was 
not  things  themselves,  but  the  reflection  of  things  in  the  art 
of  others,  that  moved  him  to  produce.  Coleridge,  I  think, 
says  of  Dryden,  that  he  took  fire  with  the  running  of  his  own 
wheels  :  so  did  Tom  ;  but  it  was  the  running  of  the  wheels  of 
others  that  set  his  wheels  running.  He  was  like  some  young 
preachers  who  spend  a  part  of  the  Saturday  in  reading  this  or 
that  author,  in  order  to  get  up  the  mental  condition  favorable 


238  MARY  MARSTOK 

to  preaching  on  the  Sunday.  He  was  really  fond  of  poetry  ; 
delighted  in  the  study  of  its  external  elements  for  the  sake  of 
his  craft ;  possessed  not  only  a  good  but  cultivated  ear  for 
verse,  which  is  a  rare  thing  out  of  the  craft ;  had  true  pleasure 
in  a  fine  phrase,  in  a  strong  or  brilliant  word  :  last  and  chief, 
had  a  special  faculty  for  imitation  ;  from  which  gifts,  graces, 
and  acquirements,  it  came,  that  he  could  write  almost  in .  any 
style  that  moved  him — so  far,  at  least,  as  to  remind  one  who 
knew  it,  of  that  style  ;  and  that  every  now  and  then  appeared 
verses  of  his  in  "The  Firefly." 

As  often  as  this  took  place,  Letty  was  in  the  third  heaven 
of  delight.  For  was  not  Tom's  poetry  unquestionably  superior 
to  anything  else  the  age  could  produce  ?  was  the  poetry  Cousin 
Godfrey  made  her  read  once  to  be  compared  to  Tom's  ?  and 
was  not  Tom  her  own  husband  ?    Happy  woman  she  ! 

But,  by  the  time  at  which  my  narrative  has  arrived,  the  first 
mist  of  a  coming  fog  had  begun  to  gather  faintly  dim  in  her 
heart.  When  Tom  would  come  home  happy,  but  talk  perplex- 
ingly  ;  when  he  would  drop  asleep  in  the  middle  of  a  story  she 
could  make  nothing  of ;  when  he  would  burst  out  and  go  on 
laughing,  and  refuse  to  explain  the  motive — how  was  she  to 
avoid  the  conclusion  forced  upon  her,  that  he  had  taken  too 
much  strong  drink  ?  and,  when  she  noted  that  this  condition 
reappeared  at  shorter  and  shorter  intervals,  might  she  not  well 
begin  to  be  frightened,  and  to  feel,  what  she  dared  not  allow, 
that  she  was  being  gradually  left  alone — that  Tom  had  struck, 
into  a  diverging  path,  and  they  were  slowing  parting  miles 
from  each  other  ? 


CHAPTEE  XXVIII. 

MARY    AND    LETTY. 


When"  her  landlady  announced  a  visitor,  Letty,  not  having 
yet  one  friend  in  London,  could  not  think  who  it  should  be. 
When  Mary  entered,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  stood  staring  : 
what  with  being  so  much  in  the  house,  and  seeing  so  few  peo- 


MARY  AND  LETTY.  239 

pie,  the  poor  girl  had,  I  think,  grown  a  little  stupid.  But, 
when  the  fact  of  Mary's  presence  cleared  itself  to  her,  she  rushed 
forward  with  a  cry,  fell  into  her  arms,  and  burst  out  weeping. 
Mary  held  her  fast  until  she  had  a  little  come  to  herself,  then, 
pushing  her  gently  away  to  the  length  of  her  arms,  looked  at 
her. 

She  was  not  a  sight  to  make  one  happy.  She  was  no  longer 
the  plump,  fresh  girl  that  used  to  go  singing  about ;  nor  was 
she  merely  thin  and  pale,  she  looked  unhealthy.  Things  could 
not  be  going  well  with  her.  Had  her  dress  been  only  disor- 
dered, that  might  haye  been  accidental,  but  it  looked  neglected 
— was  not  merely  dingy,  but  plainly  shabby,  and,  to  Mary's 
country  eyes,  appeared  on  the  wrong  side  of  clean.  Presently, 
as  those  eyes  got  accustomed  to  the  miserable  light,  they  spied 
in  the  skirt  of  her  gown  a  perfunctory  darn,  revealing  but  too 
evidently  that  to  Letty  there  no  longer  seemed  occasion  for 
being  particular.  The  sadness  of  it  all  sunk  to  Mary's  heart : 
Letty  had  not  found  marriage  a  grand  affair  ! 

But  Mary  had  not  come  into  the  world  to  be  sad  or  to  help 
another  to  be  sad.  Sorrowful  we  may  often  have  to  be,  but  to 
indulge  in  sorrow  is  either  not  to  know  or  to  deny  God  our 
Saviour.  True,  her  heart  ached  for  Letty  ;  and  the  ache  im- 
mediately laid  itself  as  close  to  Letty's  ache  as  it  could  lie  ;  but 
that  was  only  the  advance-guard  of  her  army  of  salvation,  the 
light  cavalry  of  sympathy  :  the  next  division  was  help ;  and 
behind  that  lay  patience,  and  strength,  and  hope,  and  faith, 
and  joy.  This  last,  modern  teachers,  having  failed  to  regard 
it  as  a  virtue,  may  well  decline  to  regard  as  a  duty  ;  but  he  is 
a  poor  Christian  indeed  in  whom  joy  has  not  at  least  a  growing 
share,  and  Mary  was  not  a  poor  Christian — at  least,  for  the  time 
she  had  been  learning,  and  as  Christians  go  in  the  present  ason 
of  their  history.  Her  whole  nature  drew  itself  together,  con- 
fronting the  destroyer,  whatever  he  might  be,  in  possession  of 
Letty.  How  to  help  she  could  not  yet  tell,  but  sympathy  was 
already  at  its  work. 

"  You  are  not  looking  your  best,  Letty,"  she  said,  clasping 
her  again  in  her  arms. 

With  a  little  choking,  Letty  assured  her  she  was  quite  well, 


240  MARY  MARSTON. 

only  rather  overcome  with  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  so  unex- 
pectedly. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Helmer  ?  "  asked  Mary. 

"Quite  well — and  very  busy,"  answered  Letty — a  little 
hurriedly,  Mary  thought.  " — But,"  she  added,  in  a  tone  of 
disappointment,  "you  always  used  to  call  him  Tom  !" 

"  Oh  ! "  answered  Mary,  with  a  smile,  "  one  must  be  careful 
how  one  takes  liberties  with  married  people.  A  certain  myste- 
rious change  seems  to  pass  over  some  of  them ;  they  are  not  the 
same  somehow,  and  you  have  to  make  your  acquaintance  with 
them  all  over  again  from  the  beginning." 

"I  shouldn't  think  such  people's  acquaintance  worth  mak- 
ing over  again,"  said  Letty. 

"How  can  you  tell  what  it  may  be  worth?"  said  Mary, 
"  — they  are  so  different  from  what  they  were  ?  Their  friend- 
ship may  now  be  one  that  won't  change  so  easily." 

"Ah  !  don't  be  hard  on  me,  Mary.  I  have  never  ceased  to 
love  you."  . 

"  I  am  so  glad  !"  answered  Mary.  "  People  don't  generally 
take  much  to  me — at  least,  not  to  come  near  me.  But  you  can 
he  friends  without  having  friends,"  she  added,  with  a  senten- 
tiousness  she  had  inherited. 

"I  don't  quite  understand  you,"  said  Letty,  sadly ;  "but, 
then,  I  never  could  quite,  you  know.  Tom  finds  me  very 
stupid." 

These  words  strengthened  Mary's  suspicion,  from  the  first  a 
probability,  that  all  was  not  going  well  between  the  two  ;  but 
she  shrunk  from  any  approach  to  confidences  with  one  of  a 
married  pair.  To  have  such,  she  felt  instinctively,  would  be  a 
breach  of  unity,  except,  indeed,  that  were  already,  and  irrepara- 
bly, broken.  To  encourage  in  any  married  friend  the  placing 
of  a  confidence  that  excludes  the  other,  is  to  encourage  that 
friend's  self -degradation.  But  neither  was  this  a  fault  to  which 
Letty  could  have  been  tempted  ;  she  loved  her  Tom  too  much 
for  it :  with  all  her  feebleness,  there  was  in  Letty  not  a  little 
of  childlike  greatness,  born  of  faith. 

But,  although  Mary  would  make  Letty  tell  nothing,  she  was 
not  the  less  anxious  to  discover,  that  she  might,  if  possible, 


MARY  AND  LETTY.  241 

help.  She  would  observe  :  side-lights  often  reveal  more  than 
direct  illumination.  It  might  be  for  Letty,  and  not  for  Mrs. 
Redmain,  she  had  been  sent.  He  who  made  time  in  time  would 
show. 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  long  in  London,  Mary  ? "  asked 
Letty. 

"■  Oh,  a  long  time  ! "  answered  Mary,  with  a  loving 
glance. 

Letty's  eyes  fell,  and  she  looked  troubled. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  Mary,"  she  said,  "  that  I  can  not  ask  you  to 
come  here  !  We  have  only  these  two  rooms,  and — and — you 
see — Mrs.  Helmer  is  not  very  liberal  to  Tom,  and — because 
they — don't  get  on  together  very  well — as  I  suppose  everybody 
knows — Tom  won't — he  won't  consent  to — to — " 

"You  little  goose  ! "  cried  Mary ;  "you  don't  think  I  would 
come  down  on  you  like  a  devouring  dragon,  without  even  let- 
ting you  know,  and  finding  whether  it  would  suit  you  ! — I  have 
got  a  situation  in  London." 

"A  situation  ! "  echoed  Letty.  "  What  can  you  mean,  Mary  ? 
You  haven't  left  your  own  shop,  and  gone  into  somebody 
else's?" 

"No,  not  exactly  that,"  replied  Mary,  laughing;  "but  I 
have  no  doubt  most  people  would  think  that  by  far  the  more 
prudent  thing  to  have  done." 

"  Then  I  don't,"  said  Letty,  with  a  little  flash  of  her  old 
enthusiasm.  "Whatever  you  do,  Mary,  I  am  sure  will  always 
be  the  best." 

"I  am  glad  I  have  so  much  of  your  good  opinion,  Letty  ; 
but  I  am  not  sure  I  shall  have  it  still,  when  I  have  told  you 
what  I  have  done.  Indeed,  I  am  not  quite  sure  myself  that  I 
have  done  wisely ;  but,  if  I  have  made  a  mistake,  it  is  from 
having  listened  to  love  more  than  to  prudence." 

"  What  ! "  cried  Letty  ;  "  you're  married,  Mary  ?" 

And  here  a  strange  thing,  yet  the  commonest  in  the  world, 
appeared ;  had  her  own  marriage  proved  to  Letty  the  most 
blessed  of  fates,  she  could  not  have  shown  more  delight  at  the 
idea  of  Mary's.  I  think  men  find  women  a  little  incomprehen- 
sible in  this  matter  of  their  friends'  marriage  :  in  their  larger- 
11 


242  MARY  MARSTOK 

heartedness,  I  presume,  women  are  able  to  hope  for  their 
friends,  even  when  they  have  lost  all  hope  for  themselves. 

"No/'  replied  Mary,  amused  at  having  thus  misled  her. 
"  It  is  neither  so  bad  nor  so  good  as  that.  But  I  was  far  from 
comfortable  in  the  shop  without  my  father,  and  kept  thinking 
how  to  find  a  life  more  suitable  for  me.  It  was  not  plain  to  me 
that  my  lot  was  cast  there  any  longer,  and  one  has  no  right 
to  choose  difficulty ;  for,  even  if  difficulty  be  the  right  thing 
for  you,  the  difficulty  you  choose  can't  be  the  right  difficulty. 
Those  that  are  given  to  choosing,  my  father  said,  are  given  to 
regretting.  Then  it  happened  that  I  fell  in  love — not  with  a 
gentleman — don't  look  like  that,  Letty — but  with  a  lady ;  and, 
as  the  lady  took  a  small  fancy  to  me  at  the  same  time,  and 
wanted  to  have  me  about  her,  here  I  am." 

"But,  surely,  that  is  not  a  situation  fit  for  one  like  you, 
Mary ! "  cried  Letty,  almost  in  consternation ;  for,  notwith- 
standing her  opposition  to  her  aunt's  judgment  in  the  individ- 
ual case  of  her  friend,  Letty 's  own  judgments,  where  she  had 
any,  were  mostly  of  this  world.  "  I  suppose  you  are  a  kind  of 
— of — companion  to  your  lady-friend  ?  " 

"Or  a  kind  of  lady's-maid,  or  a  kind  of  dressmaker,  or  a 
kind  of  humble  friend — something  like  a  dog,  perhaps — only 
not  to  be  quite  so  much  loved  and  petted  !  In  truth,  Letty,  I 
do  not  know  what  I  am,  or  what  I  am  going  to  be  ;  but  I  shall 
find  out  before  long,  and  where's  the  use  of  knowing,  any  more 
than  anything  else  before  it's  wanted  ? " 

"You  take  my  breath  away,  Mary!  The  thing  doesn't 
seem  at  all  like  you  !  It's  not  consistent  ! — Mary  Marston  in  a 
menial  position  !     I  can't  get  a  hold  of  it ! " 

"You  remind  me,"  said  Mary,  laughing,  "of  what  my 
father  said  to  Mr.  Turnbull  once.  They  were  nearer  quarrel- 
ing then  than  ever  I  saw  them.  You  remember  my  father's 
way,  Letty — how  he  would  say  a  thing  too  quietly  even  to  smile 
with  it  ?  I  can't  tell  you  what  a  delight  it  is  to  me  to  talk  to 
anybody  that  knew  him  ! — Mr.  Turnbull  imagined  he  did  not 
know  what  he  was  about,  for  the  thoughts  my  father  was 
thinking  could  not  have  lived  a  moment  in  Mr.  Turnbull. 
'You  see,  John  Turnbull,'  my  father  said,  'no  man  can  look 


MARY  AND  LETTY.  243 

so  inconsistent  as  one  whose  principles  are  not  understood  ;  for 
hardly  in  anything  will  that  man  do  as  his  friend  must  have 
thought  he  would.' — I  suppose  you  think,  Letty,"  Mary  went 
on,  with  a  merry  air,  "that,  for  the  sake  of  consistency,  I 
should  never  do  anything  but  sell  behind  a  counter  ?  " 

"In  that  case,"  said  Letty,  "I  ought  to  have  married  a 
milkman,  for  a  dairy  is  the  only  thing  I  understand.  I  can't 
help  Tom  ever  so  little  ! — But  I  suppose  it  wouldn't  be  possible 
for  two  to  write  poetry  together,  even  if  they  were  husband 
and  wife,  and  both  of  them  clever  ! " 

"Something  like  it  has  been  tried,  I  believe,"  answered 
Mary,  "but  not  with  much  success.  I  suppose,  when  a  man 
sets  himself  to  make  anything,  he  must  have  it  all  his  own 
way,  or  he  can't  do  it." 

"  I  suppose  that's  it.  I  know  Tom  is  very  angry  with  the 
editor  when  he  wants  to  alter  anything  he  has  written.  I'm 
sure  Tom's  right,  too.  You  can't  think  how  much  better  Tom's 
way  always  is  ! — He  makes  that  quite  clear,  even  to  poor,  stu- 
pid me.  But  then,  you  know,  Tom's  a  genius ;  that's  one 
thing  there's  no  doubt  of  ! — But  you  haven't  told  me  yet  where 
you  are." 

"You  remember  Miss  Mortimer,  of  Durnmelling  ?" 

"  Quite  well,  of  course. " 

"  She  is  Mrs.  Eedmain  now  :  I  am  with  her." 

"You  don't  mean  it  !  Why,  Tom  knows  her  very  well ! 
He  has  been  several  times  to  parties  at  her  house. " 

"And  not  you,  too  ?"  asked  Mary. 

"Oh,  dear,  no!"  answered  Letty,  laughing,  superior  at 
Mary's  ignorance.  "It's  not  the  fashion  in  London,  at  least 
for  distinguished  persons  like  my  Tom,  to  take  their  wives  to 
parties." 

"Are  there  no  ladies  at  those  parties,  then  ?" 

"Oh,  yes  !"  replied  Letty,  smiling  again  at  Mary's  igno- 
rance of  the  world,  "the  grandest  of  ladies — duchesses  and  all. 
You  don't  know  what  a  favorite  Tom  is  in  the  highest  cir- 
cles ! " 

Now  Mary  could  believe  almost  anything  bearing  on  Tom's 
being  a  favorite,  for  she  herself  liked  him  a  great  deal  more 


2M  MARY  MARSTOW. 

than  she  approved  of  him  ;  but  she  could  not  see  the  sense  of 
his  going  to  parties  without  his  wife,  neither  could  she  see  that 
the  height  of  the  circle  in  which  he  was  a  favorite  made  any 
difference.  She  had  old-fashioned  notions  of  a  man  and  his 
wife  being  one  flesh,  and  felt  a  breach  of  the  law  where  they 
were  separated,  whatever  the  custom — reason  there  could  be 
none.  But  Letty  seemed  much  too  satisfied  to  give  her  any 
light  on  the  matter.  Did  it  seem  to  her  so  natural  that  she 
could  not  understand  Mary's  difficulty  ?  She  could  not  help 
suspecting,  however,  that  there  might  be  something  in  this 
recurrence  of  a  separation  absolute  as  death — for  was  it  not  a 
passing  of  one  into  a  region  where  the  other  could  not  follow  ? 
— to  account  for  the  change  in  her. — The  same  moment,  as 
if  Letty  divined  what  was  passing  in  Mary's  thought,  and  were 
not  altogether  content  with  the  thing  herself,  but  would  gladly 
justify  what  she  could  not  explain,  she  added,  in  the  tone  of 
an  unanswerable  argument : 

"  Besides,  Mary,  how  could  I  get  a  dress  fit  to  wear  at  such 
parties  ?  You  wouldn't  have  me  go  and  look  like  a  beggar ! 
That  would  be  to  disgrace  Tom.  Everybody  in  London  judges 
everybody  by  the  clothes  she  wears.  You  should  hear  Tom's 
descriptions  of  the  ladies'  dresses  when  he  comes  home  ! " 

Mary  was  on  the  verge  of  crying  out  indignantly,  "  Then, 
if  he  can't  take  you,  why  doesn't  he  stop  at  home  with  you  ?  " 
but  she  bethought  herself  in  time  to  hold  her  peace.  She 
settled  it  with  herself,  however,  that  Tom  must  have  less  heart 
or  yet  more  muddled  brains  than  she  had  thought. 

"  So,  then,"  reverted  Letty,  as  if  willing  to  turn  definitively 
from  the  subject,  "you  are  actually  living  with  the  beautiful 
Mrs.  Redmain  !  What  a  lucky  girl  you  are  !  You  will  see  no 
end  of  grand  people  !  You  will  see  my  Tom  sometimes — when 
I  can't ! "  she  added,  with  a  sigh  that  went  to  Mary's  heart. 

"Poor  thing!"  she  said  to  herself,  "it  isn't  anything 
much  out  of  the  way  she  wants — only  a  little  more  of  a  foolish 
husband's  company  ! " 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Tom  found  Letty  dull,  for  he  had 
just  as  little  of  his  own  in  him  as  she,  and  thought  he  had  a 
great  store — which  is  what  sends  a  man  most  swiftly  along  the 


TEE  EVENING  STAR.  245 

road  to  that  final  poverty  in  which  even  that  which  he  has 
shall  he  taken  from  him. 

Mary  did  not  stay  so  long  with  Letty  as  hoth  would  have 
liked,  for  she  did  not  yet  know  enough  of  Hesper's  ways. 
When  she  got  home,  she  learned  that  she  had  a  headache,  and 
had  not  yet  made  her  appearance. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE     EVENING     STAK. 

Notwithstanding  her  headache,  however,  Mrs.  Eedmain 
was  going  in  the  evening  to  a  small  fancy-ball,  meant  for  a 
sort  of  rehearsal  to  a  great  one  when  the  season  should  arrive. 
The  part  and  costume  she  had  chosen  were  the  suggestion  of 
her  own  name  :  she  would  represent  the  Evening  Star,  clothed 
in  the  early  twilight ;  and  neither  was  she  unfit  for  the  part, 
nor  was  the  dress  she  had  designed  altogether  unsuitable  either 
to  herself  or  to  the  part.  But  she  had  sufficient  confidence 
neither  in  herself  nor  her  maid  to  forestall  a  desire  for  Mary's 
opinion.  After  luncheon,  therefore,  she  sent  for  Miss  Mars- 
ton  to  her  bedroom. 

Mary  found  her  half  dressed,  Folter  in  attendance,  a  great 
heap  of  pink  lying  on  the  bed. 

"Sit  down,  Mary,"  said  Hesper,  pointing  to  a  chair;  "I 
want  your  advice.  But  I  must  first  explain.  Where  I  am  go- 
ing this  evening,  nobody  is  to  be  herself  except  me.  I  am  not 
to  be  Mrs.  Eedmain,  though,  but  Hesper.  You  know  what 
Hesper  means  ?  " 

Mary  said  she  knew,  and  waited — a  little  anxious  ;  for  side- 
ways in  her  eyes  glowed  the  pink  of  the  chosen  Hesperian 
clouds,  and,  if  she  should  not  like  it,  what  could  be  done  at 
that  late  hour. 

"There  is  my  dress,"  continued  the  Evening  Star,  with  a 
glance  of  her  eyes,  for  Folter  was  busied  with  her  hair ;  '.<  I 
want  to  know  your  opinion  of  it." 


246  MART  MARSTOK 

Folter  gave  a  toss  of  lier  head  that  seemed  to  say,  "Have 
not  i"  spoken  ?  "  but  what  it  really  did  mean,  how  should  other 
mortal  know  ?  for  the  main  obstructions  to  understanding  are 
profundity  and  shallowness,  and  the  latter  is  far  the  more  per- 
plexing of  the  two. 

"I  should  like  to  see  it  on  first,"  said  Mary :  she  was  in 
doubt  whether  the  color — bright,  to  suggest  the  brightest  of 
sunset-clouds — would  suit  Hesper's  complexion.  Then,  again, 
she  had  always  associated  the  name  Hesper  with  a  later,  a  sol- 
emnly lovely  period  of  twilight,  having  little  in  common  with 
the  color  so  voluminous  in  the  background. 

Hesper  had  a  good  deal  of  appreciative  faculty,  and  knew 
therefore  when  she  liked  and  when  she  did  not  like  a  thing  ;  but 
she  had  very  little  originative  faculty — so  little  that,  when  any- 
thing was  wrong,  she  could  do  next  to  nothing  to  set  it  right. 
There  was  small  originality  in  taking  a  suggestion  for  her  part 
from  her  name,  and  less  in  the  idea,  following  by  concatena- 
tion, of  adopting  for  her  costume  sunset  colors  upon  a  flimsy 
material,  which  might  more  than  hint  at  clouds.  She  had 
herself,  with  the  assistance  of  Sepia  and  Folter,  made  choice  of 
the  particular  pink  ;  but,  although  it  continued  altogether  de- 
lightful in  the  eyes  of  her  maid,  it  had,  upon  nearer  and  pro- 
longed acquaintance,  become  doubtful  in  hers  ;  and  she  now 
waited,  with  no  little  anxiety,  the  judgment  of  Mary,  who  sat 
silently  thinking. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say  ?"  she  asked,  at  length,  impa- 
tiently. 

"  Please,  ma'am,"  replied  Mary,  "  I  must  think,  if  I  am  to  be 
of  any  use.     I  am  doing  my  best,  but  you  must  let  me  be  quiet." 

Half  annoyed,  half  pleased,  Hesper  was  silent,  and  Mary 
went  on  thinking.  All  was  still,  save  for  the  slight  noises  Fol- 
ter made,  as,  like  a  machine,  she  went  on  heartlessly  brushing 
her  mistress's  hair,  which  kept  emitting  little  crackles,  as  of 
dissatisfaction  with  her  handling.  Mary  would  now  take  a 
good  gaze  at  the  lovely  creature,  now  abstract  herself  from  the 
Visible,  and  try  to  call  up  the  vision  of  her  as  the  real  Hesper, 
not  a  Hesper  dressed  up — a  process  which  had  in  it  hope  for 
the  lady,  but  not  much  for  the  dress  upon  the  bed. 


TEE  EVENING  STAB.  247 

At  last  Folter  had  done  her  part. 

"I  suppose  you  must  see  it  on '."said  Hesper,  and  she 
rose  up. 

Folter  jerked  herself  to  the  bed,  took  the  dress,  arranged  it 
on  her  arms,  got  up  on  a  chair,  dropped  it  over  her  mistress's 
head,  got  down,  and,  having  pulled  it  this  way  and  that  for  a 
while,  fastened  it  here,  undone  it  there,  and  fastened  it  again, 
several  times,  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  whose  confidence  was  meant 
to  forestall  the  critical  impertinence  she  dreaded  : 

"There,  ma'am  !  If  you  don't  look  the  loveliest  woman  in 
the  room,  I  shall  never  trust  my  eyes  again." 

Mary  held  her  peace,  for  the  commonplace  style  of  the  dress 
but  added  to  her  dissatisfaction  with  the  color.  It  was  all 
puffed  and  bubbled  and  blown  about,  here  and  there  and  every- 
where, so  that  the  form  of  the  woman  was  lost  in  the  frolic 
shapelessness  of  the  cloud.  The  whole,  if  whole  it  could  be 
called,  was  a  miserable  attempt  at  combining  fancy  and  fashion, 
and,  in  result,  an  ugly  nothing. 

"I  see  you  don't  like  it !"  said  Hesper,  with  a  mingling  of 
displeasure  and  dismay.  "I  wish  you  had  come  a  few  days 
sooner  !  It  is  much  too  late  to  do  anything  now.  I  might 
just  as  well  have  gone  without  showing  it  to  you  ! — Here,  Fol- 
ter!" 

With  a  look  almost  of  disgust,  she  began  to  pull  off  the 
dress,  in  which,  a  few  hours  later,  she  would  yet  make  the  at- 
tempt to  enchant  an  assembly. 

"0  ma'am  !"  cried  Mary,  "I  wish  you  had  told  me  yes- 
terday. There  would  have  been  time  then. — And  I  don't 
know,"  she  added,  seeing  disgust  change  to  mortification  on 
Hesper's  countenance,  "but  something  might  be  done  yet." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  dropped  from  Folter's  lips  with  an  inde- 
scribable expression. 

"  What  can  be  done  ?  "  said  Hesper,  angrily.  "  There  can 
be  no  time  for  anything." 

"If  only  we  had  the  stuff  !"  said  Mary.  "That  shade 
doesn't  suit  your  complexion.  It  ought  to  be  much,  much 
darker — in  fact,  a  different  color  altogether." 

Folter  was  furious,  but  restrained  herself  sufficiently  to  pre- 


248  MART  MARSTON: 

serve  some  calmness  of  tone,  although  her  face  turned  almost 
blue  with  the  effort,  as  she  said  : 

"  Miss  Marston  is  not  long  from  the  country,  ma'am,  and 
don't  know  what's  suitable  to  a  London  drawing-room." 

Her  mistress  was  too  dejected  to  snub  her  impertinence. 

"  What  color  were  you  thinking  of,  Miss  Marston  ?  "  Hes- 
per  asked,  with  a  stiffness  that  would  have  been  more  in  place 
had  Mary  volunteered  the  opinion  she  had  been  asked  to  give. 
She  was  out  of  temper  with  Mary  from  feeling  certain  she  was 
right,  and  believing  there  was  no  remedy. 

"I  could  not  describe  it,"  answered  Mary.  "And,  indeed, 
the  color  I  have  in  my  mind  may  not  be  to  be  had.  I  have 
seen  it  somewhere,  but,  whether  in  a  stuff  or  only  in  nature,  I 
can  not  at  this  moment  be  certain." 

"  Where's  the  good  of  talking  like  that — excuse  me,  ma'am 
— it's  more  than  I  can  bear — when  the  ball  comes  off  in  a  few 
hours  ?  "  cried  Folter,  ending  with  eyes  of  murder  on  Mary. 

"If  you  would  allow  me,  ma'am,"  said  Mary,  "I  should 
like  much  to  try  whether  I  could  not  find  something  that  would 
suit  you  and  your  idea  too.  However  well  you  might  look  in 
that,  you  would  owe  it  no  thanks.  The  worst  is,  I  knowjio- 
thing  of  the  London  shops." 

"I  should  think  not  ! "  remarked  Folter,  with  emphasis. 

"  I  would  send  you  in  the  brougham,  if  I  thought  it  was 
of  any  use,"  said  Hesper.  "Folter  could  take  you  to  the 
proper  places." 

"Folter  would  be  of  no  use  to  me,"  said  Mary.  "  If  your 
coachman  knows  the  best  shops,  that  will  be  enough." 

"But  there's  no  time  to  make  up  anything,"  objected  Hes- 
per, despondingly,  not  the  less  with  a  glimmer  of  hope  in  her 
heart. 

"  Not  like  that,"  answered  Mary  ;  "  but  there  is  much  there 
as  unnecessary  as  it  is  ugly.     If  Folter  is  good  at  her  needle — " 

"  I  won't  take  up  a  single  stitch.  It  would  be  mere  waste 
of  labor,"  cried  Folter. 

"Then,  please,  ma'am,"  said  Mary,  "let  Folter  have  that 
dress  ready,  and,  if  I  don't  succeed,  you  have  something  to  wear ." 

"I hate  it.     I  won't  go  if  you  don't  find  me  another." 


THE  EVENING  STAB.  249 

"  Some  people  may  like  it,  though  I  don't,"  said  Mary. 

"Not  a  doubt  of  that  !"  said  Folter. 

"King  the  bell,"  said  her  mistress. 

The  woman  obeyed,  and  the  moment  afterward  repented  she 
had  not  given  warning  on  the  spot,  instead.  The  brougham  was 
ordered  immediately,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Mary  was  standing 
at  a  counter  in  a  large  shop,  looking  at  various  stuffs,  of  which 
the  young  man  waiting  on  her  soon  perceived  she  knew  the 
qualities  and  capabilities  better  than  he. 

She  had  set  her  heart  on  carrying  out  Hesper's  idea,  but  in 
better  fashion  ;  and  after  great  pains  taken,  and  no  little  trou- 
ble given,  left  the  shop  well  satisfied  with  her  success.  And 
now  for  the  greater  difficulty  ! 

She  drove  straightto  Letty's  lodging,  and,  there  dismissing 
the  brougham,  presented  herself,  with  a  great  parcel  in  her 
arms,  for  the  second  time  that  day,  at  the  door  of  her  room,  as 
unexpected  as  the  first,  and  even  more  to  the  joy  of  her  soli- 
tary friend. 

She  knew  that  Letty  was  good  at  her  needle.  And  Letty 
was,  indeed,  even  now,  by  fits,  fond  of  using  it ;  and  on  sev- 
eral occasions,  when  her  supply  of  novels  had  for  a  day  run 
short,  had  asked  a  dressmaker  who  lived  above  to  let  her  help 
her  for  an  hour  or  two  :  before  Mary  had  finished  her  story,  she 
was  untying  the  parcel,  and  preparing  to  receive  her  instruc- 
tions. Nor  had  they  been  at  work  many  minutes,  when  Letty 
bethought  her  of  calling  in  the  help  of  the  said  dressmaker ; 
so  that  presently  there  were  three  of  them  busy  as  bees — :one 
with  genius,  one  with  experience,  and  all  with  faculty.  The 
notions  of  the  first  were  quickly  taken  up  by  the  other  two, 
and,  the  design  of  the  dress  being  simplicity  itself,  Mary  got  all 
done  she  wanted  in  shorter  time  than  she  had  thought  possible. 
The  landlady  sent  for  a  cab,  and  Mary  was  home  with  the  im- 
probability in  more  than  time  for  Mrs.  Redmain's  toilet.  It 
was  with  some  triumph,  tempered  with  some  trepidation,  that 
she  carried  it  to  her  room. 

There  Folter  was  in  the  act  of  persuading  her  mistress  of 
the  necessity  of  beginning  to  dress :  Miss  Marston,  she  said, 
knew  nothing  of  what  she  had  undertaken ;  and,  even  if  she 


250  MARY  HARSTOW. 

arrived  in  time,  it  would  be  with  something  too  ridiculous  for 
any  lady  to  appear  in — when  Mary  entered,  and  was  received 
with  a  cry  of  delight  from  Hesper  ;  in  proportion  to  whose  in- 
creasing disgust  for  the  pink  robe,  was  her  pleasure  when  she 
caught  sight  of  Mary's  colors,  as  she  undid  the  parcel :  when 
she  lifted  the  dress  on  her  arm  for  a  first  effect,  she  was  enrap- 
tured with  it — aerial  in  texture,  of  the  hue  of  a  smoky  rose, 
deep,  and  cloudy  with  overlying  folds,  yet  diaphanous,  a  dark- 
ness dilute  with  red. 

Silent  as  a  torture-maiden,  and  as  grim,  Folter  approached 
to  try  the  filmy  thing,  scornfully  confident  that  the  first  sight 
of  it  on  would  prove  it  un wearable.  But  Mary  judged  her 
scarcely  in  a  mood  to  be  trusted  with  anything  so  ethereal ; 
and  begged  therefore  that,  as  the  dress  had,  of  necessity,  been 
in  many  places  little  more  than  run  together,  and  she  knew 
its  weak  points,  she  might,  for  that  evening,  be  allowed  the 
privilege  of  dressing  Mrs.  Eedmain.  Hesper  gladly  consented  ; 
Folter  left  the  room  ;  Mary,  now  at  her  ease,  took  her  place  ; 
and  presently,  more  to  Hesper' s  pleasure  than  Mary's  surprise, 
for  she  had  made  and  fixed  in  her  mind  the  results  of  minute 
observation  before  she  went,  it  was  found  that  the  dress  fitted 
quite  sufficiently  well,  and,  having  confined  it  round  the  waist 
with  a  cincture  of  thin  pale  gold,  she  advanced  to  her  chief 
anxiety — the  head-dress. 

For  this  she  had  chosen  such  a  doubtful  green  as  the  sky 
appears  through  yellowish  smoke — a  sad,  lovely  color — the  fair 
past  clouded  with  the  present — youth  not  forgotten,  but  filmed 
with  age.  They  were  all  colors  of  the  evening,  as  it  strives  to 
keep  its  hold  of  the  heavens,  with  the  night  pressing  upon  it 
from  behind.  In  front,  above  the  lunar  forehead,  among  the 
coronal  masses,  darkly  fair,  she  fixed  a  diamond  star,  and  over 
it  wound  the  smoky  green  like  a  turbaned  vapor,  wind-ruffled, 
through  which  the  diamonds  gleamed  faintly  by  fits.  Not 
once  would  she,  while  at  her  work,  allow  Hesper  to  look,  and 
the  self-willed  lady  had  been  submissive  in  her  hands  as  a 
child  of  the  chosen  ;  but  the  moment  she  had  succeeded — for 
her  expectations  were  more  than  realized — she  led  her  to  the 
cheval-glass. 


THE  EVENING  STAR.  251 

Hesper  gazed  for  an  instant,  then,  turning,  threw  her  arms 
about  Mary,  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  don't  believe  you're  a  human  creature  at  all ! "  she  cried. 
"You  are  a  fairy  godmother,  come  to  look  after  your  poor 
Cinderella,  the  sport  of  stupid  lady's-maids  and  dressmakers  ! " 

The  door  opened,  and  Folter  entered. 

"If  you  please,  ma'am,  I  wish  to  leave  this  day  month," 
she  said,  quietly. 

"  Then,"  answered  her  mistress,  with  equal  calmness, 
"  oblige  me  by  going  at  once  to  Mrs.  Perkin,  and  telling  her 
that  I  desire  her  to  pay  you  a  month's  wages,  and  let  you  leave 
the  house  to-morrow  morning. — You  won't  mind  helping  me 
to  dress  till  I  get  another  maid — will  you,  Mary  ?  "  she  added  ; 
and  Folter  left  the  room,  chagrined  at  her  inability  to  cause 
annoyance. 

"  I  do  not  see  why  you  should  have  another  maid  so  long 
as  I  am  with  you,  ma'am,"  said  Mary.  "  It  should  not  need 
many  days'  apprenticeship  to  make  one  woman  able  to  dress 
another." 

"  Not  when  she  is  like  you,  Mary,"  said  Hesper.  "  It  is 
well  the  wretch  has  done  my  hair  for  to-night,  though  !  That 
will  be  the  main  difficulty." 

" It  will  not  be  a  great  one,"  said  Mary,  "if  you  will  allow 
me  to  undo  it  when  you  come  home." 

"  I  begin  almost  to  believe  in  a  special  providence,"  said 
Hesper.  "What  a  blessed  thing  for  me  that  you  came  to  drive 
away  that  woman  !     She  has  been  getting  worse  and  worse." 

"  If  I  have  driven  her  away,"  answered  Mary,  "  I  am  bound 
to  supply  her  place." 

As  they  talked,  she  was  giving  her  final  touches  of  arrange- 
ment to  the  head-dress — with  which  she  found  it  least  easy  to 
satisfy  herself.  It  swept  round  from  behind  in  a  misty  cloak, 
the  two  colors  mingling  with  and  gently  obscuring  each  other ; 
while,  between  them,  the  palest  memory  of  light,  in  the  golden 
cincture,  helped  to  bring  out  the  somber  richness,  the  delicate 
darkness  of  the  whole. 

Searching  now  again  Hesper's  jewel-case,  Mary  found  a  fine 
bracelet  of  the  true,  the  Oriental  topaz,  the  old  chrysolite — of 


252  MARY  MARSTOK 

that  clear  yellow  of  the  sunset-sky  that  looks  like  the  'scaped 
spirit  of  miser-smothered  gold  :  this  she  clasped  upon  one  arm  ; 
and  when  she  had  fastened  a  pair  of  some  ancient  Mortimer's 
garnet  buckles  in  her  shoes,  which  she  had  insisted  should  be 
black,  and  taken  off  all  the  rings  that  Hesper  had  just  put  on, 
except  a  certain  glorious  sapphire,  she  led  her  again  to  the  mir- 
ror ;  and,  if  there  Hesper  was  far  more  pleased  with  herself 
than  was  reasonable  or  lovely,  my  reader  needs  not  therefore 
fear  a  sermon  from  the  text,  "  Beauty  is  only  skin-deep,"  for 
that  text  is  out  of  the  devil's  Bible.  No  Baal  or  Astarte  is  the 
maker  of  beauty,  but  the  same  who  made  the  seven  stars  and 
Orion,  and  His  works  are  past  finding  out.  If  only  the  woman 
herself  and  her  worshipers  knew  how  deep  it  is  !  But  the 
woman's  share  in  her  own  beauty  may  be  infinitely  less  than 
skin-deep  ;  and  there  is  but  one  greater  fool  than  the  man  who 
worships  that  beauty — the  woman  who  prides  herself  upon  it, 
as  if  she  were  the  fashioner  and  not  the  thing  fashioned. 

But  poor  Hesper  had  much  excuse,  though  no  justification. 
She  had  had  many  of  the  disadvantages  and  scarce  one  of  the 
benefits  of  poverty.  She  had  heard  constantly  from  childhood 
the  most  worldly  and  greedy  talk,  the  commonest  expression 
of  abject  dependence  on  the  favors  of  Mammon,  and  thus  had 
from  the  first  been  in  preparation  for  marrying  money.  She 
had  been  taught  no  other  way  of  doing  her  part  to  procure  the 
things  of  which  the  Father  knows  we  have  need.  She  had 
never  earned  a  dinner  ;  had  never  done  or  thought  of  doing  a 
day's  work — of  offering  the  world  anything  for  the  sake  of 
which  the  world  might  offer  her  a  shilling  to  do  it  again  ;  she 
had  never  dreamed  of  being  of  any  use,  even  to  herself ;  she 
had  learned  to  long  for  money,  but  had  never  been  hungry, 
never  been  cold  :  she  had  sometimes  felt  shabby.  Out  of  it  all 
she  had  brought  but  the  knowledge  that  this  matter  of  beauty, 
with  which,  by  some  blessed  chance,  she  was  endowed,  was 
worth  much  precious  money  in  the  world's  market — worth  all 
the  dresses  she  could  ever  desire,  worth  jewels  and  horses  and 
servants,  adoration  and  adulation  —  everything,  in  fact,  the 
world  calls  fine,  and  the  devil  offers  to  those  who,  unscared 
by  his  inherent  ugliness,  will  fall  down  and  worship  him. 


A  SCOLDING.  253 

CHAPTEE  XXX. 

A  SCOLDING. 

The  Evening  Star  found  herself  a  success — that  is,  much 
followed  by  the  men  and  much  complimented  by  the  women. 
Her  triumph,  however,  did  not  culminate  until  the  next 
appearance  of  "The  Firefly,"  containing  a  song  "To  the 
Evening  Star,"  which  everybody  knew  to  stand  for  Mrs.  Bed- 
main.  The  chaos  of  the  uninitiated,  indeed,  exoteric  and 
despicable,  remained  in  ignorance,  nor  dreamed  that  the 
verses  meant  anybody  of  note  ;  to  them  they  seemed  but  the 
calf-sigh  of  some  young  writer  so  deep  in  his  first  devotion 
that  he  jumbled  up  his  lady-love,  Hesper,  and  Aphrodite,  in 
the  same  poetic  bundle — of  which  he  left  the  string-ends 
hanging  a  little  loose,  while,  upon  the  whole,  it  remained  a  not 
altogether  unsightly  bit  of  prentice- work.  Tom  had  not  been 
at  the  party,  but  had  gathered  fire  enough  from  what  he  heard 
of  Hesper's  appearance  there  to  write  the  verses.  Here  they 
are,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recall  them.  They  are  in  themselves 
not  worth  writing  out  for  the  printers,  but,  in  their  surround- 
ings, they  serve  to  show  Tom,  and  are  the  last  with  which  I 
shall  trouble  the  readers  of  this  narrative. 

"TO   THE  EVENING  STAE. 

"  From  the  buried  sunlight  springing, 
Through  flame-darkened,  rosy  loud, 
Native  sea-hues  with  thee  bringing, 
In  the  sky  thou  reignest  proud ! 

"  Who  is  like  thee,  lordly  lady, 
Star-choragus  of  the  night ! 
Color  worships,  fainting  fady, 
Night  grows  darker  with  delight ! 

"  Dusky-radiant,  far,  and  somber, 
In  the  coolness  of  thy  state, 
From  my  eyelids  chasing  slumber, 
Thou  dost  smile  upon  my  fate ; 


254  MARY  MARSTOK 

"  Calmly  shinest;  not  a  whisper 

Of  my  songs  can  reach  thine  ear ; 
"What  is  it  to  thee,  0  Hesper, 
That  a  heart  should  long  or  fear?  " 

Tom  did  not  care  to  show  Letty  this  poem — not  that  there 
was  anything  more  in  his  mind  than  an  artistic  admiration  of 
Hesper,  and  a  desire  to  make  himself  agreeable  in  her  eyes  \ 
but,  when  Letty,  haying  read  it,  betrayed  no  shadow  of  an- 
noyance with  its  folly,  he  was  a  little  relieved.  The  fact  was, 
the  simple  creature  took  it  as  a  pardon  to  herself. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  forgiven  me,  Tom,"  she  said. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Tom. 

"  For  working  for  Mrs.  Eedmain  with  your  hands,"  she 
said,  and,  breaking  into  a  little  laugh,  caught  his  cheeks  be- 
tween those  same  hands,  and  reaching  up  gave  him  a  kiss  that 
made  him  ashamed  of  himself — a  little,  that  is,  and  for  the 
moment,  that  is  :  Tom  was  used  to  being  this  or  that  a  little. 
for  the  moment. 

For  this  same  dress,  which  Tom  had  thus  glorified  in  song, 
had  been  the  cause  of  bitter  tears  to  Letty.  He  came  home 
too  late  the  day  of  Mary's  visit,  but  the  next  morning  she  told 
him  all  about  both  the  first  and  the  second  surprise  she  had 
had — not,  however,  with  much  success  in  interesting  the  lordly 
youth. 

"And  then,"  she  went  on,  "what  do  you  think  we  were 
doing  all  the  afternoon,  Tom  ?  " 

"How  should  I  know  ?"  said  Tom,  indifferently. 

"We  were  working  hard  at  a  dress — a  dress  for  a  fancy- 
ball!" 

"A  fancy-ball,  Letty  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  You  going 
to  a  fancy-ball  ! " 

"Me!"  cried  Letty,  with  merry  laugh;  "no,  not  quite 
me.     Who  do  you  think  it  was  for  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  "  said  Tom  again,  but  not  quite  so 
indifferently  ;  be  was  prepared  to  be  annoyed. 

"For  Mrs.  Eedmain  !"  said  Letty,  triumphantly,  clapping 
her  hands  with  delight  at  what  she  thought  the  fun  of  the 
thing,  for  was  not  Mrs.  Eedmain  Tom's  friend  ? — then  stooping 


A  SCOLDING.  255 

a  little — it  was  an  unconscious,  pretty  trick  she  had — and  hold- 
ing them  out,  palm  pressed  to  palm,  with  the  fingers  toward 
his  face. 

"Letty,"  said  Tom,  frowning — and  the  frown  deepened 
and  deepened ;  for  had  he  not  from  the  first,  if  in  nothing 
else,  taken  trouble  to  instruct  her  in  what  became  the  wife  of 
Thomas  Helmer,  Esq.  ? — "Letty,  this  won't  do  !  " 

Letty  was  frightened,  but  tried  to  think  he  was  only  pre- 
tending to  be  displeased. 

"Ah  !  don't  frighten  me,  Tom,"  she  said,  with  her  merry 
hands  now  changed  to  pleading  ones,  though  their  position  and 
attitude  remained  the  same. " 

But  he  caught  them  by  the  wrists  in  both  of  his,  and  held 
them  tight. 

"Letty,"  he  said  once  more,  and  with  increased  severity, 
"this  won't  do.     I  tell  you,  it  won't  do." 

"What  won't  do,  Tom?"  she  returned,  growing  white. 
"There's  no  harm  done." 

"  Yes,  there  is,"  said  Tom,  with  solemnity  ;  "  there  is  harm 
done,  when  my  wife  goes  and  does  like  that.  What  would 
people  say  of  me,  if  th'ey  were  to  come  to  know — God  forbid 
they  should  ! — that  your  husband  was  talking  all  the  evening 
to  ladies  at  whose  dresses  his  wife  had  been  working  all  the 
afternoon  ! — You  don't  know  what  you  are  doing,  Letty. 
What  do  you  suppose  the  ladies  would  think  if  they  were  to 
hear  of  it  ?  " 

Poor,  foolish  Tom,  ignorant  in  his  folly,  did  not  know  how 
little  those  grand  ladies  would  have  cared  if  his  wife  had  been 
a  char-woman  :  the  eyes  of  such  are  not  discerning  of  fine  social 
distinctions  in  women  who  are  not  of  their  set,  neither  are  the 
family  relations  of  the  bohemians  they  invite  of  the  smallest 
consequence  to  them. 

"  But,  Tom,"  pleaded  his  wife,  "  such  a  grand  lady  as  that ! 
one  you  go  and  read  your  poetry  to  !  What  harm  can  there  be 
in  your  poor  little  wife  helping  to  make  a  dress  for  a  lady  like 
that?" 

"  I  tell  you,  Letty,  I  don't  choose  my  wife  to  do  such  a  thing 
for  the  greatest  lady  in  the  land  !    Good  Heavens  !  if  it  were  to 


« 
256  MARY  MARSTON. 

come  to  the  ears  of  the  staff  !  It  would  be  the  ruin  of  me  !  I 
should  never  hold  up  my  head  again  ! " 

By  this  time  Letty's  head  was  hanging  low,  like  a  flower 
half  broken  from  its  stem,  and  two  big  tears  were  slowly  rolling 
down  her  cheeks.  But  there  was  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  in  her 
heart  notwithstanding.  Tom  thought  so  much  of  his  little  wife 
that  he  would  not  haye  her  work  for  the  greatest  lady  in  the 
land  !  She  did  not  see  that  it  was  not  pride  in  her,  but  pride 
in  himself,  that  made  him  indignant  at  the  idea.  It  was  not 
"my  wife,"  but  "  my  wife  "  with  Tom.  She  looked  again  up 
timidly  in  his  face,  and  said,  her  voice  trembling,  and  her 
cheeks  wet,  for  she  could  not  wipe  away  the  tears,  because  Tom 
still  held  her  hands  as  one  might  those  of  a  naughty  child  : 

"  But,  Tom  !  I  don't  exactly  see  how  you  can  make  so 
much  of  it,  when  you  don't  think  me — when  you  know  I  am 
not  fit  to  go  among  such  people." 

To  this  Tom  had  no  reply  at  hand  :  he  was  not  yet  far 
enough  down  the  devil's  turnpike  to  be  able  to  tell  his  wife 
that  he  had  spoken  the  truth — that  he  did  not  think  her  fit  for 
such  company  ;  that  he  would  be  ashamed  of  her  in  it ;  that  she 
had  no  style  ;  that,  instead  of  carrying  herself  as  if  she  knew 
herself  somebody — as  good  as  anybody  there,  indeed,  being  the 
wife  of  Tom  Helmer — she  had  the  meek  look  of  one  who  knew 
herself  nobody,  and  did  not  know  her  husband  to  be  anybody. 
He  did  not  think  how  little  he  had  done  to  give  the  unassum- 
ing creature  that  quiet  confidence  which  a  woman  ought  to 
gather  from  the  assurance  of  her  husband's  satisfaction  in  her, 
and  the  consciousness  of  being,  in  dress  and  everything  else, 
pleasing  in  his  eyes,  therefore  of  occupying  the  only  place  in 
the  world  she  desires. to  have.  But  he  did  think  that  Letty's 
next  question  might  naturally  be,  "Why  do  you  not  take  me 
with  you  ? "  No  doubt  he  could  have  answered,  no  one  had 
ever  asked  her  ;  but  then  she  might  rejoin,  had  he  ever  put  it 
in  any  one's  way  to  ask  her  ?  It  might  even  occur  to  her  to  in- 
quire whether  he  had  told  Mrs.  Eedmain  that  he  had  a  wife  ! 
and  he  had  heart  enough  left  to  imagine  it  might  mortally  hurt 
her  to  find  he  lived  a  life  so  utterly  apart  from  hers — that  she 
had  so  little  of  the  relations  though  all  the  rights  of  wifehood. 


SEPIA.  257 

It  was  no  wonder,  therefore,  if  he  was  more  than  willing  to 
change  the  subject.  He  let  the  poor,  imprisoned  hands  drop  so 
abruptly  that,  in  their  abandonment,  they  fell  straight  from 
her  shoulders  to  her  sides. 

"Well,  well,  child!"  he  said;  "put  on  your  bonnet,  and 
we  shall  be  in  time  for  the  first  piece  at  the  Lyceum." 

Letty  flew,  and  was  ready  in  five  minutes.  She  could  dress 
the  more  quickly  that  she  was  delayed  by  little  doubt  as  to 
what  she  had  better  wear  :  she  had  scarcely  a  choice.  Tom, 
looking  after  his  own  comforts,  left  her  to  look  after  her  neces- 
sities ;  and  she,  having  a  conscience,  and  not  much  spirit,  went 
even  shabbier  than  she  yet  needed. 


CHAPTEE  XXXI. 

SEPIA. 

As  naturally  as  if  she  had  been  born  to  that  very  duty  and 
no  other,  Mary  slid  into  the  office  of  lady's-maid  to  Mrs.  Ked- 
main,  feeling  in  it,  although  for  reasons  very  different,  no  more 
degradation  than  her  mistress  saw  in  it.  If  Hesper  was  occa- 
sionally a  little  rude  to  her,  Mary  was  not  one  to  accept  a  rude- 
ness— that  is,  to  wrap  it  up  in  resentment,  and  put  it  away 
safe  in  the  pocket  of  memory.  She  could  not  help  feeling 
things  of  the  kind — sometimes  with  indignation  and  anger ; 
but  she  made  haste  to  send  them  from  her,  and  shut  the  doors 
against  them.  She  knew  herself  a  far  more  blessed  creature 
than  Hesper,  and  felt  the  obligation,  from  the  Master  himself, 
of  so  enduring  as  to  keep  every  channel  of  service  open  between 
Hesper  and  her.  To  Hesper,  the  change  from  the  vulgar  ser- 
vice of  Folter  to  the  ministration  of  Mary  was  like  passing 
from  a  shallow  purgatory  to  a  gentle  paradise.  Mary's  service 
was  full  of  live  and  near  presence,  as  that  of  dew  or  summer 
wind  ;  Folter  handled  her  as  if  she  were  dressing  a  doll,  Mary 
as  if  she  were  dressing  a  baby ;  her  hands  were  deft  as  an 
angel's,  her  feet  as  noiseless  as  swift.     And  to  have  Mary  near 


258  MART  MARSTOK 

was  not  only  to  have  a  ministering  spirit  at  hand,  but  to  have 
a  good  atmosphere  all  around — an  air,  a  heaven,  out  of  which 
good  things  must  momently  come.  Few  could  be  closely  asso- 
ciated with  her  and  not  become  aware  at  least  of  the  capacity 
of  being  better,  if  not  of  the  desire  to  be  better. 

In  the  matter  of  immediate  result,  it  was  a  transition  from 
decoration  to  dress.  If  in  any  sense  Hesper  was  well  dressed 
before,  she  was  in  every  sense  well  dressed  now — dressed  so, 
that  is,  as  to  reveal  the  nature,  the  analogies,  and  the  associa- 
tions of  her  beauty  :  no  manner  of  dressing  can  make  a  woman 
look  more  beautiful  than  she  is,  though  many  a  mode  may 
make  her  look  less  so. 

There  was  one  in  the  house,  however,  who  was  not  pleased 
at  the  change  from  Folter  to  Mary  :  Sepia  found  herself 
in  consequence  less  necessary  to  Hesper.  Hitherto  Hesper 
had  never  been  satisfied  without  Sepia's  opinion  and  final  ap- 
proval in  that  weightiest  of  affairs,  the  matter  of  dress ;  but 
she  found  in  Mary  such  a  faculty  as  rendered  appeal  to  Sepia 
unnecessary  ;  for  she  not  only  satisfied  her  idea  of  herself,  and 
how  she  would  choose  to  look,  but  showed  her  taste  as  much 
surer  than  Sepia's  as  Sepia's  was  readier  than  Hesper's  own. 
Sepia  was  equal  to  the  dressing  of  herself — she  never  blundered 
there  ;  but  there  was  little  dependence  to  be  placed  upon  her 
in  dressing  another.  She  cared  for  herself,  not  for  another ; 
and  to  dress  another,  love  is  needful — love,  the  only  true  artist 
— love,  the  only  opener  of  eyes.  She  cared  nothing  to  minis- 
ter to  the  comfort  or  beautification  of  her  cousin,  and  her  dis- 
pleasure did  not  arise  from  the  jealousy  that  is  born  of  affec- 
tion. So  far  as  Hesper's  self  was  concerned,  Sepia  did  not  care 
a  straw  whether  she  was  well  or  ill  dressed  ;  but,  if  the  link  be- 
tween them  of  dress  was  severed,  what  other  so  strong  would 
be  left  ?  And  to  find  herself  in  any  way  a  less  object  in  Hes- 
per's eyes,  would  be  to  find  herself  on  the  inclined  plane  of 
loss,  and  probable  ruin. 

Another,  though  a  smaller,  point  was,  that  hitherto  she  had 
generally  been  able  so  to  dress  Hesper  as  to  make  of  her  more 
or  less  a  foil  to  herself.  My  reader  may  remember  that  there 
was  between  Hesper  and  Sepia,  if  not  a  resemblance,  yet  a  re- 


SEPIA.  259 

lation  of  appearance,  like,  vaguely,  that  between  the  twilight 
and  the  night ;  seen  in  certain  positions  and  circumstances,  the 
one  would  recall  the  other  ;  and  it  was  therefore  a  matter  of  no 
small  consequence  to  Sepia  that  the  relation  of  her  dress  to 
Hesper's  should  he  such  as  to  give  herself  any  advantage  to  be 
derived  in  it  from  the  relation  of  their  looks.  This  was  far 
more  difficult,  of  course,  when  she  had  no  longer  a  voice  in  the 
matter  of  Hesper's  dress,  and  when  the  loving  skill  of  the  new 
maid  presented  her  rival  to  her  individual  best.  Mary  would 
have  been  glad  to  help  her  as  well,  but  Sepia  drew  back  as  from 
a  hostile  nature,  and  they  made  no  approximation.  This  was 
more  loss  to  Sepia  than  she  knew,  for  Mary  would  have  assist- 
ed her  in  doing  the  best  when  she  had  no  money,  a  condition 
which  often  made  it  the  more  trying  that  she  had  now  so  little 
influence  over  her  cousin's  adornment.  To  dress  was  a  far  more 
difficult,  though  not  more  important,  affair  with  Sepia  than 
with  Hesper,  for  she  had  nothing  of  her  own,  and  from  her 
cousin  no  fixed  allowance.  Any  arrangement  of  the  kind  had 
been  impossible  at  Durnmelling,  where  there  was  no  money ; 
and  here,  where  it  would  have  been  easy  enough,  she  judged  it 
better  to  give  no  hint  in  its  direction,  although  plainly  it  had 
never  suggested  itself  to  Hesper.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
money-mean  in  her,  a,ny  more  than  in  her  husband.  They  were 
of  course,  as  became  people  of  fashion,  regular  and  unwearied 
attendants  of  the  church  of  Mammon,  ordering  all  their  judg- 
ments and  ways  in  accordance  with  the  precepts  there  deliv- 
ered ;  but  they  were  none  of  Mammon's  priests  or  pew-openers, 
money-grubs,  or  accumulators.  They  gave  liberally  where  they 
gave,  and  scraped  no  inferior  to  spend  either  on  themselves  or 
their  charities.  They  had  plenty,  it  is  true  ;  but  so  have  many 
who  withhold  more  than  is  meet,  and  take  the  ewe-lamb  to  add 
to  their  flock.  For  one  thing,  they  had  no  time  for  that  sort 
of  wickedness,  and  took  no  interest  in  it.  So  Hesper,  although 
it  had  not  come  into  her  mind  to  give  her  the  ease  of  a  stated 
allowance,  behaved  generously  to  Sepia — when  she  thought  of 
it ;  but  she  did  not  love  her  enough  to  be  love-watchful,  and 
seldom  thought  how  her  money  must  be  going,  or  questioned 
whether  she  might  not  at  the  moment  be  in  want  of  more. 


260  MARY  MARSTON. 

There  are  many  who  will  give  freely,  who  do  not  care  to  un- 
derstand need  and  anticipate  want.  Hence  at  times  Sepia's 
purse  would  be  long  empty  before  the  giying-thought  would 
wake  in  the  mind  of  Hesper.  When  it  woke,  it  was  gracious 
and  free. 

Had  Sepia  ventured  to  run  up  bills  with  the  tradespeople, 
Hesper  would  have  taken  it  as  a  thing  of  course,  and  settled 
them  with  her  own.  But  Sepia  had  a  certain  politic  pride  in 
spending  only  what  was  given  her  ;  also  she  saw  or  thought  she 
saw  serious  reason  for  avoiding  all  appearances  of  taking  liber- 
ties ;  from  the  first  of  Mr.  Kedmain's  visits  to  Durnmelling, 
she  had  been  aware,  with  an  instinct  keen  in  respect  of  its  ob- 
jects, though  blind  as  to  its  own  nature,  that  he  did  not  like 
her,  and  soon  satisfied  herself  that  any  overt  attempt  to  please 
him  would  but  ripen  his  dislike  to  repugnance  ;  and  her  dread 
was  that  he  might  make  it  a  condition  with  Mr.  Mortimer  that 
Hesper's  intimacy  with  her  should  cease  ;  whereas,  if  once  they 
were  married,  the  husband's  disfavor  would,  she  believed,  only 
strengthen  the  wife's  predilection.  Having  so  far  gained  her 
end,  it  remained,  however,  almost  as  desirable  as  before  that 
she  should  do  nothing  to  fix  or  increase  his  dislike — nay,  that, 
if  within  the  possible,  she  should  become  pleasing  to  him.  Did 
not  even  hate  turn  sometimes  to  its  mighty  opposite  ?  But 
she  understood  so  little  of  the  man  with  whom  she  had  to  deal 
that  her  calculations  were  ill-founded. 

She  was  right  in  believing  that  Mr.  Eedmain  disliked  her, 
but  she  was  wrong  in  imagining  that  he  had  therefore  any  ob- 
jection to  her  being  for  the  present  in  the  house.  He  certainly 
did'iot  relish  the  idea  of  her  continuing  to  be  his  wife's  insep- 
arable companion,  but  there  would  be  time  enough  to  get  rid 
of  her  after  he  had  found  her  out.  For  she  had  not  long  been 
one  of  his  family,  before  he  knew,  with  insight  unerring,  that 
she  had  to  be  found  out,  and  was  therefore  an  interesting  sub- 
ject for  the  exercise  of  his  faculty  of  moral  analysis.  He  was 
certain  her  history  was  composed  mainly  of  secrets.  As  yet, 
however,  he  had  discovered  nothing. 

I  must  just  remind  my  reader  of  the  intellectual  passion  I 
have  already  mentioned  as  characterizing  Mr.  Kedmain's  men- 


SEPIA.      ■  261 

tal  constitution.  His  faults  and  vices  were  by  no  means  pecu- 
liar ;  but  the  bent  to  which  I  refer,  certainly  no  virtue,  and 
springing  originally  from  predominant  evil,  was  in  no  small  de- 
gree peculiar,  especially  in  the  degree  to  which,  derived  as  it  was 
from  his  father,  he  had  in  his  own  being  developed  it.  Most 
men,  he  judged  with  himself,  were  such  fools  as  well  as  rogues, 
that  there  was  not  the  least  occasion  to  ask  what  they  were 
after :  they  did  but  turn  themselves  inside  out  before  you  ! 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  Were  not  a  few  who  took  pains, 
more  or  less  successful,  to  conceal  their  game  of  life  ;  and  such 
it  was  the  delight  of  his  being  to  lay  bare  to  his  own  eyes — not 
to  those  of  other  people  ;  that,  he  said,  would  be  to  spoil  his 
game  !  Men  were  his  library,  he  said — his  history,  his  novels, 
his  sermons,  his  philosophy,  his  poetry,  his  whole  literature — 
and  he  did  not  like  to  have  his  books  thumbed  by  other  people. 
Human  nature,  in  its  countless  aspects,  was  all  about  him,  he 
said,  every  mask  crying  to  him  to  take  it  off.  Unhappily,  it 
was  but  the  morbid  anatomy  of  human  nature  he  cared  to 
study.  For  all  his  abuse  of  it,  he  did  not  yet  recognize  it  as 
morbid,  but  took  it  as  normal,  and  the  best  to  be  had.  No 
doubt,  he  therein  judged  and  condemned  himself,  but  that  he 
never  thought  of — nor,  perceived,  would  it  have  been  a  point 
of  any  consequence  to  him. 

From  the  first,  he  saw  through  Mr.  Mortimer,  and  all  be- 
longing to  him,  except  Miss  Yolland  :  she  soon  began  to  puz- 
zle— and,  so  far,  to  please  him,  though,  as  I  have  said,  he  did 
not  like  her.  Had  he  been  a  younger  man,  she  would  have 
captivated  him  ;  as  it  was,  she  would  have  repelled  him  entire- 
ly, but  that  she  offered  him  a  good  subject.  He  said  to  him- 
self that  she  was  a  bad  lot,  but  what  sort  of  a  bad  lot  was  not 
so  clear  as  to  make  her  devoid  of  interest  to  him  ;  he  must  dis- 
cover how  she  played  her  life-game  ;  she  had  a  history,  and  he 
would  fain  know  it.  As  I  have  said,  however,  so  far  it  had 
come  to  nothing,  for,  upon  the  surface,  Sepia  showed  herself 
merely  like  any  other  worldly  girl  who  knows  "  on  which  side 
her  bread  is  buttered." 

The  moment  he  had  found,  or  believed  he  had  found,  what 
there  was  to  know  about  her,  he  was  sure  to  hate  her  heartily. 


262  MARY  MABSTON. 

For  some  time  after  his  marriage,  lie  appeared  at  his  wife's 
parties  oftener  than  he  otherwise  would  have  done,  just  for 
the  sake  of  having  an  eye  upon  Sepia  ;  but  had  seen  nothing, 
nor  the  shadow  of  anything — until  one  night,  by  the  merest 
chance,  happening  to  enter  his  wife's  drawing-room,  he  caught 
a  peculiar  glance  between  Sepia  and  a  young  man — not  very 
young — who  had  just  entered,  and  whom  he  had  not  seen 
before. 

To  not  a  few  it  seemed  strange  that,  with  her  unquestioned 
powers  of  fascination,  she  had  not  yet  married  ;  but  London  is 
not  the  only  place  in  which  poverty  is  as  repellent  as  beauty  is 
attractive.  At  the  same  time  it  must  be  confessed  there  was 
something  about  her  which  made  not  a  few  men  shy  of  her. 
Some  found  that,  if  her  eyes  drew  them  within  a  certain  dis- 
tance, there  they  began  to  repel  them,  they  could  not  tell  why. 
Others  felt  strangely  uncomfortable  in  her  presence  from  the 
first.  Not  only  much  that  a  person  has  done,  but  much  of 
what  a  person  is  capable  of,  is,  I  suspect,  written  on  the  bodily 
presence  ;  and,  although  no  human  eye  is  capable  of  reading- 
more  than  here  and  there  a  scattered  hint  of  the  twilight  of 
history,  which  is  the  aurora  of  prophecy,  the  soul  may  yet 
shudder  with  an  instinctive  foreboding  it  can  not  explain,  and 
feel  the  presence,  without  recognizing  the  nature,  of  the  hostile. 

Sepia's  eyes  were  her  great  power.  She  knew  the  laws  of 
mortar-practice  in  that  kind  as  well  as  any  officer  of  engineers 
those  of  projectiles.  There  was  something  about  her  engines 
which  it  were  vain  to  attempt  to  describe.  Their  lightest 
glance  was  a  thing  not  to  be  trifled  with,  and  their  gaze  a  thing 
hardly  to  be  withstood.  Sustained  and  without  hurt  defied,  it 
could  hardly  be  by  man  of  woman  born.  They  were  large,  but 
no  fool  would  be  taken  with  mere  size.  They  were  as  dark  as 
ever  eyes  of  woman,  but  our  older  poets  delighted  in  eyes  as 
gray  as  glass  :  certainly  not  in  their  darkness  lay  their  peculiar 
witchery.  They  were  grandly  proportioned,  neither  almond- 
shaped  nor  round,  neither  prominent  nor  deep-set ;  but  even 
shape  by  itself  is  not  much.  If  I  go  on  to  say  they  were  lumi- 
nous, plainly  there  the  danger  begins.  Sepia's  eyes,  I  confess, 
were  not  lords  of  the  deepest  light — for  she  was  not  true  ;  but 


SEPIA.  263 

neither  was  theirs  a  surface  light,  generated  of  merely  physical 
causes  :  through  them,  concentrating  her  will  upon  their  ut- 
terance, she  could  establish  a  psychical  contact  with  almost  any 
man  she  chose.  Their  power  was  an  evil,  selfish  shadow  of 
original,  universal  love.  By  them  she  could  produce  at  once, 
in  the  man  on  whom  she  turned  their  play,  a  sense  as  it  were 
of  some  primordial,  fatal  affinity  between  her  and  him — of  an 
aboriginal  understanding,  the  rare  possession  of  but  a  few  of 
the  pairs  made  male  and  female.  Into  those  eyes  she  would 
call  up  her  soul,  and  there  make  it  sit,  flashing  light,  in  gleams 
and  sparkles,  shoots  and  coruscations — not  from  great,  black 
pupils  alone — to  whose  size  there  were  who  said  the  suicidal 
belladonna  lent  its  aid — but  from  great,  dark  irids  as  well — 
nay,  from  eyeballs,  eyelashes,  and  eyelids,  as  from  spiritual 
catapult  or  culverin,  would  she  dart  the  lightnings  of  her 
present  soul,  invading  with  influence  as  irresistible  as  subtile 
the  soul  of  the  man  she  chose  to  assail,  who,  thenceforward, 
for  a  season,  if  he  were  such  as  she  took  him  for,  scarce  had 
choice  but  be  her  slave.  She  seldom  exerted  their  full  force, 
however,  without  some  further  motive  than  mere  desire  to 
captivate.  There  are  women  who  fly  their  falcons  at  any  game, 
little  birds  and  all ;  but  Sepia  did  not  so  waste  herself  :  her 
quarry  must  be  worth  her  hunt :  she  must  either  love  him  or 
need  him.  Love  !  did  I  say  ?  Alas  !  if  ever  holy  word  was  put 
to  unholy  use,  love  is  that  word  !  When  Diana  goes  to  hell, 
her  name  changes  to  Hecate,  but  love  among  the  devils  is  called 
love  still ! 

In  more  than  one  other  country,  whatever  might  be  the 
cause,  Sepia  had  found  the  men  less  shy  of  her  than  here  ;  and 
she  had  almost  begun  to  think  her  style  was  not  generally 
pleasing  to  English  eyes.  Whether  this  had  anything  to  do 
with  the  fact  that  now  in  London  she  began  to  amuse  herself 
with  Tom  Helmer,  I  can  not  say  with  certainty  ;  but  almost  if 
not  quite  the  first  time  they  met,  that  morning,  namely,  when 
first  he  called,  and  they  sat  in  the  bay-window  of  the  drawing- 
room  in  Grlammis  Square,  she  brought  her  eyes  to  play  upon 
him  ;  and,  although  he  addressed  "The  Firefly"  poem  to  Hes- 
per  in  the  hope  of  pleasing  her,  it  was  for  the  sake  of  Sepia 


264  MARY  MARSTOK 

chiefly  that  he  desired  the  door  of  her  house  to  be  an  open  one 
to  him.  Whether  at  that  time  she  knew  he  was  a  married  man, 
it  is  hardly  necessary  to  inquire,  seeing  it  would  have  made  no 
difference  whatever  to  one  like  her,  whose  design  was  only  to 
amuse  herself  with  the  youth,  and  possibly  to  make  of  him  a 
screen.  She  went  so  far,  however,  as  to  allow  him,  when  there 
was  opportunity,  to  draw  her  into  quiet  corners,  and  even  to 
linger  when  the  other  guests  were  gone,  and  he  had  had  his  full 
share  of  champagne.  Once,  indeed,  they  remained  together  so 
long  in  the  little  conservatory,  lighted  only  by  an  alabaster 
lamp,  pale  as  the  moon  in  the  dawning,  that  she  had  to  unbolt 
the  door  to  let  him  out.  This  did  not  take  place  without  com- 
ing to  the  knowledge  of  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kedmain  ;  but  the 
former  was  only  afraid  there  was  nothing  in  it,  and  was  far 
from  any  wish  to  control  her ;  and  Sepia  herself  was  the  in- 
formant of  the  latter.  To  her  she  would  make  game  of  her 
foolish  admirer,  telling  how,  on  this  and  that  occasion,  it  was 
all  she  could  do  to  get  rid  of  him. 


CHAPTEK  XXXII. 

HONOR. 

Having  now  gained  a  partial  insight  into  Letty's  new  po- 
sition, Mary  pondered  what  she  could  do  to  make  life  more  of 
life  to  her.  Not  many  knew  better  than  she  that  the  only  true 
way  to  help  a  human  heart  is  to  lift  it  up  ;  but  she  knew  also 
that  every  kind  of  loving  aid  tends  more  or  less  to  that  uplift- 
ing ;  and  that,  if  we  can  not  do  the  great  thing,  we  must  be 
ready  to  do  the  small :  if  we  do  not  help  in  little  things,  how 
shall  we  be  judged  fit  to  help  in  greater  ?  We  must  help  where 
we  can,  that  we  may  help  where  we  can  not.  The  first  and  the 
only  thing  she  could  for  a  time  think  of,  was,  to  secure  for 
Letty,  if  possible,  a  share  in  her  husband's  pleasures. 

Quietly,  yet  swiftly,  a  certain  peaceful  familiarity  had  estab- 


HONOR.  265 

lislied  itself  between  Hesper  and  Mary,  to  which  the  perfect 
balance  of  the  latter  and  her  sense  of  the  only  true  foundation 
of  her  position  contributed  far  more  than  the  undefined  par- 
tiality of  the  former.  The  possibility  of  such  a  conversation 
as  I  am  now  going  to  set  down  was  one  of  the  results. 

"Do  you  like  Mr.  Helmer,  ma'am  ?"  asked  Mary  one  morn- 
ing, as  she  was  brushing  her  hair. 

"  Very  well.     How  do  you  know  anything  of  him  ?  " 

"  Not  many  people  within  ten  miles  of  Testbridge  do  not 
know  Mr.  Helmer,"  answered  Mary. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  remember,"  said  Hesper.  "He  used  to  ride 
about  on  a  long-legged  horse,  and  talked  to  anybody  that  would 
listen  to  him.  But  there  was  always  something  pleasing  about 
him,  and  he  is  much  improved.  Do  you  know,  he  is  considered 
really  very  clever  ?  " 

"I  am  not  surprised,"  rejoined  Mary.  "He  used  to  be 
rather  foolish,  and  that  is  a  sign  of  cleverness — at  least,  many 
clever  people  are  foolish,  I  think." 

"  You  can't  have  had  much  opportunity  for  making  the 
observation,  Mary  ! " 

"  Clever  people  think  as  much  of  themselves  in  the  country 
as  they  do  in  London,  and  that  is  what  makes  them  foolish," 
returned  Mary.  "  But  I  used  to  think  Mr.  Helmer  had  very 
good  points,  and  was  worth  doing  something  for — if  one  only 
knew  what. " 

"He  does  not  seem  to  want  anything  done  for  him,"  said 
Hesper. 

"  I  know  one  thing  you  could  do  for  him,  and  it  would  be 
no  trouble,"  said  Mary. 

"I  will  do  anything  for  anybody  that  is  no  trouble,"  an- 
swered Hesper.  "  I  should  like  to  know  something  that  is  no 
trouble. " 

"  It  is  only,  the  next  time  you  ask  him,  to  ask  his  wife," 
said  Mary. 

"  He  is  married,  then  ?"  returned  Hesper  with  indifference. 
"  Is  the  woman  presentable  ?  Some  shopkeeper's  daughter,  I 
suppose ! " 

Mary  laughed. 
12 


266  MARY  MARSTOK 

"You  don't  imagine  the  son  of  a  lawyer  would  be  likely  to 
marry  a  shopkeeper's  daughter  ! "  she  said. 

"  Why  not  ?"  returned  Hesper,  with  a  look  of  non-intelli- 
gence. 

"  Because  a  professional  man  is  so  far  above  a  tradesman." 

"Oh  !"  said  Hesper.  " — But  he  should  have  told  me  if 
he  wanted  to  bring  his  wife  with  him.  I  don't  care  who  she 
is,  so  long  as  she  dresses  decently  and  holds  her  tongue.  "What 
are  you  laughing  at,  Mary  ?  " 

Hesper  called  it  laughing,  but  Mary  was  only  smiling. 

" I  can't  help  being  amused,"  answered  Mary,  "that  you 
should  think  it  such  an  out-of-the-way  thing  to  be  a  shopkeep- 
er's daughter,  and  here  am  I  all  the  time,  feeling  quite  com- 
fortable, and  proud  of  the  shopkeeper  whose  daughter  I  am." 

"Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon,"  exclaimed  Hesper,  growing  hot 
for,  I  almost  believe,  the  first  time  in  her  life,  and  therein,  I 
fear,  showing  a  drop  of  bad  blood  from  somewhere,  probably 
her  father's  side  of  the  creation  ;  for  not  even  the  sense  of  hav- 
ing hurt  the  feelings  of  an  inferior  can  make  the  thorough- 
bred woman  of  the  world  aware  of  the  least  "discomfort ;  and 
here  was  Hesper,  not  only  feeling  like  a  woman  of  God's  mak- 
ing, but  actually  showing  it ! — "How  cruel  of  me  !"  she  went 
on.  "But,  you  see,  I  never  think  of  you — when  I  am  talking 
to  you — as — as  one  of  that  class  !  " 

Mary  laughed  outright  this  time  :  she  was  amused,  and 
thought  it  better  to  show  it,  for  that  would  show  also  she  was 
not  hurt.     Hesper,  however,  put  it  down  to  insensibility. 

"Surely,  dear  Mrs.  Eedmain,"  said  Mary,  "you  can  not 
think  the  class  to  which  I  belong  in  itself  so  objectionable 
that  it  is  rude  to  refer  to  it  in  my  hearing  ! " 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  repeated  Hesper,  but  in  a  tone  of  some 
offense  :  it  was  one  thing  to  confess  a  fault ;  another  to  be  re- 
garded as  actually  guilty  of  the  fault.  "ISTo thing  was  further 
from  my  intention  than  to  offend  you.  I  have  not  a  doubt 
that  shopkeepers  are  a  most  respectable  class  in  their  way — " 

"Excuse  me,  dear  Mrs.  Eedmain,"  said  Mary  again,  "but 
you  quite  mistake  me.  I  am  not  in  the  least  offended.  I  don't 
care  what  you  think  of  the  class.    There  are  a  great  many  shop- 


HONOR.  267 

keepers  who  are  anything  but  respectable — as  bad,  indeed,  as 
any  of  the  nobility. " 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  morals,"  answered  Hesper.  "In 
that,  I  dare  say,  all  classes  are  pretty  much  alike.  But,  of 
ocurse,  there  are  differences." 

"Perhaps  one  of  them  is,  that,  in  our  class,  we  make  re- 
spectability more  a  question  of  the  individual  than  you  do  in 
yours." 

"That  may  be  very  true,"  returned  Hesper.  "So  long  as 
a  man  behaves  himself,  we  ask  no  questions." 

"  Will  you  let  me  tell  you  how  the  thing  looks  to  me  ? " 
said  Mary. 

"Certainly.  You  do  uot  suppose  I  care  for  the  opinions 
of  the  people  about  me !  I,  too,  have  my  way  of  looking  at 
things." 

So  said  Hesper  ;  yet  it  was  just  the  opinions  of  the  people 
about  her  that  ruled  all  those  of  her  actions  that  could  be  said 
to  be  ruled  at  all.  'No  one  boasts  of  freedom  except  the  willing 
slave — the  man  so  utterly  a  slave  that  he  feels  nothing  irksome 
in  his  fetters.  Yet,  perhaps,  but  for  the  opinions  of  those  about 
her,  Hesper  would  have  been  worse  than  she  was. 

"Am  I  right,  then,  in  thinking,"  began  Mary,  "that  peo- 
ple of  your  class  care  only  that  a  man  should  wear  the  look  of 
a  gentleman,  and  carry  himself  like  one  ? — that,  whether  his 
appearance  be  a  reality  or  a  mask,  you  do  not  care,  so  long  as 
no  mask  is  removed  in  your  company  ? — that  he  may  be  the 
lowest  of  men,  but,  so  long  as  other  people  receive  him,  you  will, 
too,  counting  him  good  enough  ?  " 

Hesper  held  her  peace.  She  had  by  this  time  learned  some 
facts  concerning  the  man  she  had  married  which,  beside  Mary's 
question,  were  embarrassing. 

"It  is  interesting,"  she  said  at  length,  "to  know  how  the 
different  classes  in  a  country  regard  each  other."  But  she 
spoke  wearily  :  it  was  interesting  in  the  abstract,  not  interest- 
ing to  her. 

"The  way  to  try  a  man,"  said  Mary,  "would  be  to  turn 
him  the  other  way,  as  I  saw  the  gentleman  who  is  taking  your 
portrait  do  yesterday  trying  a  square — change  his  position  quite, 


268  MARY  MARSTON. 

I  mean,  and  mark  how  far  he  continued  to  look  a  true  man. 
He  would  show  something  of  his  real  self  then,  I  think.  Make 
a  nobleman  a  shopkeeper,  for  instance,  and  see  what  kind  of  a 
shopkeeper  he  made.  If  he  showed  himself  just  as  honorable 
when  a  shopkeeper  as  he  had  seemed  when  a  nobleman,  there 
would  be  good  reason  for  counting  him  an  honorable  man." 

"  What  odd  fancies  you  have,  Mary  ! "  said  Hesper,  yawning. 

"I  know  my  father  would  have  been  as  honorable  as  a  no- 
bleman as  he  was  when  a  shopkeeper,"  persisted  Mary. 

"That  I  can  well  believe — he  was  your  father,"  said  Hesper, 
kindly,  meaning  what  she  said,  too,  so  far  as  her  poor  under- 
standing of  the  honorable  reached. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me,"  asked  Mary,  "how  you  would 
define  the  difference  between  a  nobleman  and  a  shopkeeper  ?  " 

Hesper  thought  a  little.  The  question  to  her  was  a  stupid 
one.  She  had  never  had  interest  enough  in  humanity  to  care 
a  straw  what  any  shopkeeper  ever  thought  or  felt.  Such  peo- 
ple inhabited  a  region  so  far  below  her  as  to  be  practically  out 
of  her  sight.  They  were  not  of  her  kind.  It  had  never  oc- 
curred to  her  that  life  must  look  to  them  much  as  it  looked  to 
her  ;  that,  like  Shylock,  they  had  feelings,  and  would  bleed  if 
cut  with  a  knife.  But,  although  she  was  not  interested,  she 
peered  about  sleepily  for  an  answer.  Her  thoughts,  in  a  lazy 
fashion,  tumbled  in  her,  like  waves  without  wind — which,  in- 
deed, was  all  the  sort  of  thinking  she  knew.  At  last,  with  the 
decision  of  conscious  superiority,  and  the  judicial  air  afforded 
by  the  precision  of  utterance  belonging  to  her  class — a  pre- 
cision so  strangely  conjoined  with  the  lack  of  truth  and  logic 
both — she  said,  in  a  tone  that  gave  to  the  merest  puerility  the 
consequence  of  a  judgment  between  contending  sages  : 

"The  difference  is,  that  the  nobleman  is  born  to  ease  and 
dignity  and  affluence,  and  the — shopkeeper  to  buy  and  sell  for 
his  living." 

"  Many  a  nobleman,"  suggested  Mary,  "  buys  and  sells  with- 
out the  necessity  of  making  a  living." 

"That  is  the  difference,"  said  Hesper. 

"Then  the  nobleman  buys  and  sells  to  make  money,  and 
the  shopkeeper  to  make  a  living  ?  " 


HONOR.  269 

"  Yes,"  granted  Hesper,  lazily. 

"  "Which  is  the  nobler  end — to  live,  or  to  make  money  ?  " 

But  this  question  was  too  far  beyond  Hesper.  She  did 
not  even  choose  to  hear  it. 

"And,"  she  said,  resuming  her  definition  instead,  "the 
nobleman  deals  with  great  things,  the  shopkeeper  with  small." 

"When  things  are  finally  settled,"  said  Mary — 

"Gracious,  Mary!"  cried  Hesper,  "what  do  you  mean? 
Are  not  things  settled  for  good  this  many  a  century  ?  I  am 
afraid  I  have  been  harboring  an  awful  radical ! — a — what  do 
they  call  it  ? — a  communist !  " 

She  would  have  turned  the  whole  matter  out  of  doors,  for 
she  was  tired  of  it. 

"Things  hardly  look  as  if  they  were  going  to  remain  just 
as  they  are  at  this  precise  moment,"  said  Mary.  "How  could 
they,  when,  from  the  very  making  of  the  world,  they  have  been 
going  on  changing  and  changing,  hardly  ever  even  seeming  to 
standstill?" 

"  You  frighten  me,  Mary  !  You  will  do  something  terrible 
in  my  house,  and  I  shall  get  the  blame  of  it ! "  said  Hesper, 
laughing. 

But  she  did  in  truth  feel  a  little  uncomfortable.  The 
shadow  of  dismay,  a  formless  apprehension  overclouded  her. 
Mary's  words  recalled  sentiments  which  at  home  she  had  heard 
alluded  to  with  horror ;  and,  however  little  parents  may  be 
loved  or  respected  by  their  children,  their  opinions  will  yet 
settle,  and,  until  they  are  driven  out  by  better  or  worse,  will 
cling. 

"When  I  tell  you  what  I  was  really  thinking  of,  you  will 
not  be  alarmed  at  my  opinions,"  said  Mary,  not  laughing  now, 
but  smiling  a  deep,  sweet  smile  ;  "  I  do  not  believe  there  ever 
will  b*e  any  settlement  of  things  but  one ;  they  can  not  and 
must  not  stop  changing,  until  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  come. 
Into  that  they  must  change,  and  rest." 

"You  are  leaving  politics  for  religion  now,  Mary.  That  is 
the  one  fault  I  have  to  find  with  you — you  won't  keep  things 
in  their  own  places  !  You  are  always  mixing  them  up — like 
that  Mrs. — what's  her  name  ? — who  will  mix  religion  and  love 


270  MARY  MAR8T0HT. 

in  her  novels,  though  everybody  tells  her  they  have  nothing  to 
do  with  each  other  !    It  is  so  irreverent ! " 

"Is  it  irreverent  to  believe  that  God  rules  the  world  he 
made,  and  that  he  is  bringing  things  to  his  own  mind  in  it  ?  " 

"You  can't  persuade  me  religion  means  turning  things  up- 
side down." 

"  It  means  that  a  good  deal  more  than  people  think.  Did 
not  our  Lord  say  that  many  that  are  first  shall  be  last,  and  the 
last  first?" 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  this  nineteenth  century  ?" 

"Perhaps  that  the  honorable  shopkeeper  and  the  mean  no- 
bleman will  one  day  change  places. " 

"Oh,"  -thought  Hesper,  "that  is  why  the  lower  classes 
take  so  to  religion  ! "  But  what  she  said  was  :  "  Oh,  yes,  I 
dare  say !  But  everything  then  will  be  so  different  that  it 
won't  signify.  When  we  are  all  angels,  nobody  will  care  who 
is  first,  and  who  is  last.  I'm  sure,  for  one,  it  won't  be  any- 
thing to  me." 

Hesper  was  a  tolerable  attendant  at  church — I  will  not  say 
whether  high  or  low  church,  because  I  should  be  supposed  to 
care. 

"In  the  kingdom  of  heaven,"  answered  Mary,  "things 
will  always  look  what  they  are.  My  father  used  to  say  people 
will  grow  their  own  dresses  there,  as  surely  as  a  leopard  his 
spots.  He  had  to  do  with  dresses,  you  know.  There,  not 
only  will  an  honorable  man  look  honorable,  but  a  mean  or  less 
honorable  man  must  look  what  he  is." 

"There  will  be  nobody  mean  there." 

"Then  a  good  many  won't  be  there  who  are  called  honor- 
able here." 

"I  have  no  doubt  there  will  be  a  good  deal  of  allowance 
made  for  some  people,"  said  Hesper.  "Society  makes  such 
demands  ! " 


TEE  INVITATION.  271 

CHAPTEE  XXXIII. 

THE    INVITATION". 

When  Letty  received  Mrs.  Kedmain's  card,  inviting  her 
with  her  husband  to  an  evening  party,  it  raised  in  her  a  be- 
wildered nutter — of  pleasure,  of  fear,  of  pride,  of  shyness,  of 
dismay :  how  dared  she  show  her  face  in  such  a  grand  as- 
sembly ?  She  would  not  know  a  bit  how  to  behave  herself  ! 
But  it  was  impossible,  for  she  had  no  dress  fit  to  go  anywhere  ! 
What  would  Tom  say  if  she  looked  a  dowdy  ?  He  would  be 
ashamed  of  her,  and  she  dared  not  think  what  might  come 
of  it ! 

But  close  upon  the  postman  came  Mary,  and  a  long  talk 
followed.  Letty  was  full  of  trembling  delight,  but  Mary  was 
not  a  little  anxious  with  herself  how  Tom  would  take  it. 

The  first  matter,  however,  was  Letty' s  dress.  She  had  no 
money,  and  seemed  afraid  to  ask  for  any.  The  distance  be- 
tween her  and  her  husband  had  been  widening. 

Their  council  of  ways  and  means  lasted  a  good  while,  in- 
cluding many  digressions.  At  last,  though  unwillingly,  Letty 
accepted  Mary's  proposal  that  a  certain  dress,  her  best  indeed, 
though  she  did  not  say  so,  which  she  had  scarcely  worn,  and 
was  not  likely  to  miss,  should  be  made  to  fit  Letty.  It  was  a 
lovely  black  silk,  the  best  her  father  had  been  able  to  choose 
for  her  the  last  time  he  was  in  London.  A  little  pang  did  shoot 
through  her  heart  at  the  thought  of  parting  with  it,  but  she 
had  too  much  of  that  father  in  her  not  to  know  that  the 
greatest  honor  that  can  be  shown  any  tiling,  is  to  make  it 
serve  a  person ;  that  the  dearest  gift  of  love,  withheld  from 
human  necessity,  is  handed  over  to  the  moth  and  the  rust. 
But  little  idea  had  Letty,  much  as  she  appreciated  her  kind- 
ness, what  a  sacrifice  Mary  was  making  for  her  that  she  might 
look  her  own  sweet  self,  and  worthy  of  her  renowned  Tom  ! 

When  Tom  came  home  that  night,  however,  the  look  of  the 
world  and  all  that  is  in  it  changed  speedily  for  Letty,  and  ter- 
ribly. He  arrived  in  great  good  humor — somebody  had  been 
praising  his  verses,  and  the  joy  of  the  praise  overflowed  on  his 


272  MARY  MARSTOK 

wife.  But  when,  pleased  as  any  little  girl  with  the  prospect  of 
a  party  and  a  new  frock,  she  told  him,  with  gleeful  gratitude, 
of  the  invitation  and  the  heavenly  kindness  which  had  rendered 
it  possible  for  her  to  accept  it,  the  countenance  of  the  great 
man  changed.  He  rejected  the  idea  of  her  going  with  him  to 
any  gathering  of  his  grand  friends — objected  most  of  all  to  her 
going  to  Mrs.  Eedmain's.  Alas  !  he  had  begun  to  allow  to 
himself  that  he  had  married  in  too  great  haste — and  beneath 
him.  Wherever  he  went,  his  wife  could  be  no  credit  to  him, 
and  her  presence  would  take  from  him  all  sense  of  liberty  !  Not 
choosing,  however,  to  acknowledge  either  of  these  objections, 
and  not  willing,  besides,  to  appear  selfish  in  the  eyes  of  the 
woman  who  had  given  herself  to  him,  he  was  only  too  glad  to 
put  all  upon  another,  to  him  equally  genuine  ground.  Con- 
trolling his  irritation  for  the  moment,  he  set  forth  with  lordly 
kindness  the  absolute  impossibility  of  accepting  such  an  offer 
as  Mary's.  Could  she  for  a  moment  imagine,  he  said,  that  he 
would  degrade  himself  by  taking  his  wife  out  in  a  dress  that 
was  not  her  own  ? 

Here  Letty  interrupted  him. 

"  Mary  has  given  me  the  dress,"  she  sobbed,  " — for  my  very 
own." 

•  "  A  second-hand  dress  !  A  dress  that  has  been  worn  ! " 
cried  Tom.  "  How  could  you  dream  of  insulting  me  so  ?  The 
thing  is  absolutely  impossible.  Why,  Letty,  just  think  ! — 
There  should  I  be,  going  about  as  if  the  -house  were  my  own, 
and  there  would  be  my  wife  in  the  next  room,  or  perhaps 
at  my  elbow,  dressed  in  the  finery  of  the  lady's-maid  of  the 
house  !  It  won't  bear  thinking  of  !  I  declare  it  makes  me  so 
ashamed,  as  I  lie  here,  that  I  feel  my  face  quite  hot  in  the  dark  ! 
To  have  to  reason  about  such  a  thing — with  my  own  wife,  too  ! " 

''It's  not  finery,"  sobbed  Letty,  laying  hold  of  the  one  fact 
within  her  reach  ;  "it's  a  beautiful  black  silk." 

"  It  matters  not  a  straw  what  it  is,"  persisted  Tom,  adding 
humbug  to  cruelty.  "You  wCuld  be  nothing  but  a  sham  ! — 
A  live  dishonesty  !  A  jackdaw  in  peacock's  feathers  ! — I  am 
sorry,  Letty,  your  own  sense. of  truth  and  uprightness  should 
not  prevent  even  the  passing  desire  to  act  such  a  lie.     Your 


THE  INVITATION.  273 

fine  dress  would  be  just  a  fine  fib — yourself  would  be  but  a 
walking  fib.  I  have  been  taking  too  much  for  granted  with 
you  :  I  must  bring  you  no  more  novels.  A  volume  or  two  of 
Carlyle  is  what  you  want." 

This  was  too  much.  To  lose  her  novels  and  her  new  dress 
together,  and  be  threatened  with  nasty  moral  medicine — for 
she  had  never  read  a  word  of  Carlyle  beyond  his  translation  of 
that  dream  of  Kichter's,  and  imagined  him  dry  as  a  sand-pit — 
was  bad  enough,  but  to  be  so  reproved  by  her  husband  was 
more  than  she  could  bear.  If  she  was  a  silly  and  ignorant 
creature,  she  had  the  heart  of  a  woman-child  ;  and  that  pre- 
cious thing  in  the  sight  of  God,  wounded  and  bruised  by  the 
husband  in  whom  lay  all  her  pride,  went  on  beating  laboriously 
for  him  only.  She  did  not  blame  him.  Anything  was  better 
than  that.  The  dear,  simple  soul  had  a  horror  of  rebuke.  It 
would  break  hedges  and  climb  stone  walls  to  get  out  of  the  path 
of  judgment — ten  times  more  eagerly  if  her  husband  were  the 
judge.  She  wept  and  wailed  like  a  sick  child,  until  at  length 
the  hard  heart  of  selfish  Tom  was  touched,  and  he  sought,  after 
the  fashion  of  a  foolish  mother,  to  read  the  inconsolable  a  les- 
son of  wisdom.  But  the  truer  a  heart,  -the  harder  it  is  to  con- 
sole with  the  false.  By  and  by,  however,  sleep,  the  truest  of 
things,  did  for  her  what  even  the  blandishments  of  her  husband 
could  not. 

When  she  woke  in  the  morning,  he  was  gone  :  he  had 
thought  of  an  emendation  in  a  poem  that  had  been  set  up  the 
day  before,  and  made  haste  to  the  office,  lest  it  should  be 
printed  without  the  precious  betterment. 

Mary  came  before  noon,  and  found  sadness  where  she  had 
left  joy.  When  she  had  heard  as  much  as  Letty  thought  prop- 
er to  tell  her,  she  was  filled  with  indignation,  and  her  first 
thought  was  to  compass  the  tyrant's  own  exclusion  from  the 
paradise  whose  gates  he  closed  against  his  wife.  But  second 
thoughts  are  sometimes  best,  and  she  saw  the  next  moment 
not  only  that  punishment  did  not  belong  to  her,  but  that  the 
weight  of  such  would  fall  on  Letty.  The  sole  thing  she  could 
think  of  to  comfort  her  was,  to  ask  her  to  spend  the  same 
evening  with  her  in  her  room.     The  proposal  brightened  Letty 


274  MARY  MARSTON. 

up  at  once  :  some  time  or  other  in  the  course  of  the  evening 
she  would,  she  fancied,  see,  or  at  least  catch  a  glimpse  of  Tom 
in  his  glory ! 

The  evening  came,  and  with  beating  heart  Letty  went  up 
the  back  stairs  to  Mary's  room.  She  was  dressing  her  mistress, 
but  did  not  keep  her  waiting  long.  She  had  provided  tea  be- 
forehand, and,  when  Mrs.  Eedmain  had  gone  down,  the  two 
friends  had  a  pleasant  while  together.  Mary  took  Letty  to 
Mrs.  Eedmain's  room  while  she  put  away  her  things,  and  there 
showed  her  many  splendors,  which,  moving  no  envy  in  her 
simple  heart,  yet  made  her  sad,  thinking  of  Tom.  As  she 
passed  to  the  drawing-room,  Sepia  looked  in,  and  saw  them 
together. 

But,  as  the  company  kept  arriving,  Letty  grew  very  restless. 
She  could  not  talk  of  anything  for  two  minutes  together,  but 
kept  creeping  out  of  the  room  and  half-way  down  the  stair,  to 
look  over  the  banister-rail,  and  have  a  bird's-eye  peep  of  a  por- 
tion of  the  great  landing,  where  indeed  she  caught  many  a 
glimpse  of  beauty  and  state,  but  never  a  glimpse  of  her  Tom. 
Alas  !  she  could  not  even  imagine  herself  near  him.  What  she 
saw  made  her  feel  as  if  her  idol  were  miles  away,  and  she  could 
never  draw  nigh  him  again.  How  should  the  familiar  associate 
of  such  splendid  creatures  care  a  pin's  point  for  his  humdrum 
wife  ? 

Worn  out  at  last,  and  thoroughly  disappointed,  she  wanted 
to  go  home.  It  was  then  past  midnight.  Mary  went  with 
her,  and  saw  her  safe  in  bed  before  she  left  her. 

As  she  went  up  to  her  room  .on  her  return,  she  saw,  through 
the  door  by  which  the  gardener  entered  the  conservatory,  Sepia 
standing  there,  and  Tom,  with  flushed  face,  talking  to  her  ea- 
gerly. 

Letty  cried  herself  to  sleep,  and  dreamed  that  Tom  had 
disowned  her  before  a  great  company  of  grand  ladies,  who 
mocked  her  from  their  sight. 

Tom  came  home  while  she  slept,  and  in  the  morning  was 
cross  and  miserable — in  part,  because  he  had  been  so  abomi- 
nably selfish  to  her.  But  the  moment  that,  half  frightened, 
half  hopeful,  she  told  him  where  she  was  the  night  before,  he 


TEE  INVITATION.  275 

broke  into  the  worst  anger  he  had  eyer  yet  shown  her.  His 
shameful  pride  could  not  brook  the  idea  that,  where  he  was  a 
guest,  his  wife  was  entertained  by  one  of  the  domestics  ! 

"How  dare  you  be  guilty  of  such  a  disgraceful  thing  !  "  he 
cried. 

"  Oh,  don't,  Tom — dear  Tom  !  "  pleaded  Letty  in  terror. 
"  It  was  you  I  wanted  to  see — not  the  great  people,  Tom  !  I 
don't  care  if  I  never  see  one  of  them  again." 

'"■  Why  should  you  ever  see  one  of  them  again,  I  should 
like  to  know  !    What  are  they  to  you,  or  you  to  them  ?  " 

"But  you  know  I  was  asked  to  go,  Tom  ! " 

"You're  not  such  a  fool  as  to  fancy  they  cared  about  you  ! 
Everybody  knows  they  are  the  most  heartless  set  of  people  in 
the  world  ! " 

"  Then  why  do  you  go,  Tom  ?  "  said  Letty,  innocently. 

"That's  quite  another  thing  !  A  man  has  to  cultivate  con- 
nections his  wife  need  not  know  anything  about.  It  is  one  of 
the  necessities  laid  on  my  position." 

Letty  supposed  it  all  truer  than  it  was  either  intelligible  or 
pleasant,  and  said  no  more,  but  let  poor,  self-abused,  fine-fel- 
low Tom  scold  and  argue  and  reason  away  till  he  was  tired. 
She  was  not  sullen,  but  bewildered  and  worn  out.  He  got  up, 
and  left  her  without  a  word. 

Even  at  the  risk  of  hurt  to  his  dignity,  of  which  there  was 
no  danger  from  the  presence  of  his  sweet,  modest  little  wife  in 
the  best  of  company,  it  had  been  well  for  Tom  to  have  allowed 
Letty  the  pleasure  within  her  reach ;  for  that  night  Sepia's 
artillery  played  on  him  ruthlessly.  It  may  have  been  merely 
for  her  amusement — time,  you  see,  moves  so  slowly  with  such 
as  have  no  necessities  they  must  themselves  supply,  and  recog- 
nize no  duties  they  must  perform  :  without  those  two  main 
pillars  of  life,  necessity  and  duty,  how  shall  the  temple  stand, 
when  the  huge,  weary  Samson  comes  tugging  at  it  ?  The  won- 
der is,  there  is  not  a  great  deal  more  wickedness  in  the  world. 
For  listlessness  and  boredness  and  nothing-to-do-ness  are  the 
best  of  soils  for  the  breeding  of  the  worms  that  never  stop 
gnawing.  Anyhow,  Sepia  had  flashed  on  Tom,  the  tinder  of 
Tom's  heart  had  responded,  and,  any  day  when  Sepia  chose, 


276  MART  MARSTOK 

she  might  blow  up  a  wicked  as  well  as  foolish  ilame  ;  nor,  if  it 
should  suit  her  purpose,  was  Sepia  one  to  hesitate  in  the  use  of 
the  fire-fan.  All  the  way  home,  her  eyes  haunted  him,  and  it 
is  a  more  dreadful  thing  than  most  are  aware  to  be  haunted  by 
anything,  good  or  bad,  except  the  being  who  is  our  life.  And 
those  eyes,  though  not  good,  were  beautiful.  Evil,  it  is  true, 
has  neither  part  nor  lot  in  beauty  ;  it  is  absolutely  hostile  to 
it,  and  will  at  last  destroy  it  utterly  ;  but  the  process  is  a  long 
one,  so  long  that  many  imagine  badness  and  beauty  vitally 
associable.  Tom  yielded  to  the  haunting,  and  it  was  in  part 
the  fault  of  those  eyes  that  he  used  such  hard  words  to  his 
wife  in  the  morning.  Wives  have  not  seldom  to  suffer  sorely 
for  discomforts  and  wrongs  in  their  husbands  of  which  they 
knoAV  nothing.  But  the  thing  will  be  set  right  one  day,  and 
in  a  better  fashion  than  if  all  the  woman' s-rights'  committees 
in  the  world  had  their  will  of  the  matter. 

About  this  time,  from  the  top,  left-hand  corner  of  the  last 
page  of  "The  Firefly,"  it  appeared  that  Twilight  had  given 
place  to  Night ;  for  the  first  of  many  verses  began  to  show 
themselves,  in  which  Twilight,  or  Hesper,  or  Vesper,  or  the 
Evening  Star,  was  no  more  once  mentioned,  but  only  and  al- 
ways !Nox,  or  Hecate,  or  the  dark  Diana.  Tenebrious  was  a 
great  word  with  Tom  about  this  time.  He  was  very  fond,  also, 
of  the  word  interlunar.  I  will  not  trouble  my  reader  with  any 
specimen  of  the  outcome  of  Tom's  new  inspiration,  partly  for 
this  reason,  that  the  verses  not  unf  requently  came  so  near  being 
good,  nay,  sometimes  were  really  so  good,  that  I  do  not  choose 
to  set  them  down  where  they  would  be  treated  with  a  mockery 
they  do  not  in  themselves  deserve.  He  did  not  direct  his 
wife's  attention  to  them,  nor  did  he  compose  them  at  home  or 
at  the  office.  Mostly  he  wrote  them  between  acts  at  the  theatre, 
or  in  any  public  place  where  something  in  which  he  was  not 
interested  was  going  on. 

Of  all  that  read  them,  and  here  was  a  Nemesis  awful  in 
justice,  there  was  not  one  less  moved  by  them  than  she  who  had 
inspired  them.  She  saw  in  them,  it  is  true,  a  reflex  of  her 
own  power — and  that  pleased,  but  it  did  not  move  her.  She 
took  the  devotion  and  pocketed  it,  as  a  greedy  boy  might  an 


THE  INVITATION.  277 

orange  or  bull's-eye.  The  verses  in  which  Tom  delighted  were 
but  the  merest  noise  in  the  ears  of  the  lady  to  whom  of  all  he 
would  have  had  them  acceptable.  One  momentary  revelation 
as  to  how  she  regarded  them  would  have  been  enough  to  release 
him  from  his  foolish  enthrallment.  Indignation,  chagrin,  and 
mortification  would  have  soon  been  the  death  of  such  poor  love 
as  Tom's. 

Mary  and  Sepia  were  on  terms  of  politeness — of  readiness 
to  help  on  the  one  side,  and  condescension  upon  the  other. 
Sepia  would  have  condescended  to  the  Mother  Mary.  The 
pure  human  was  an  idea  beyond  her,  as  beyond  most  people. 
They  have  not  enough  religion  toward  God  to  know  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  religion  toward  their  neighbor.  But  Sepia 
never  made  an  enemy — if  she  could  help  it.  She  could  not  af- 
ford the  luxury  of  hating — openly,  at  least.  But  I  imagine 
she  would  have  hated  Mary  heartily  could  she  have  seen  the 
way  she  regarded  her — the  look  of  pitiful  love,  of  compassion- 
ate and  waiting  helpfulness  which  her  soul  would  now  and  then 
cast  upon  her.  Of  all  things  she  would  have  resented  pity ; 
and  she  took  Mary's  readiness  to  help  for  servility — and  natu- 
rally, seeing  in  herself  willingness  came  from  nothing  else, 
though  she  called  it  prudence  and  necessity,  and  knew  no 
shame  because  of  it.  Her  children  justify  the  heavenly  wis- 
dom, but  the  worldly  wisdom  justifies  her  children.  Mary 
could  not  but  feel  how  Sepia  regarded  her  service,  but  service, 
to  be  true,  must  be  divine,  that  is,  to  the  just  and  the  unjust, 
like  the  sun  and  the  rain. 

Between  Sepia  and  Mr.  Eedmain  continued  a  distance  too 
great  for  either  difference  or  misunderstanding.  They  met 
with  a  cold  good  morning,  and  parted  without  any  good  night. 
Their  few  words  were  polite,  and  their  demeanor  was  civil.  At 
the  breakfast-table,  Sepia  would  silently  pass  things  to  Mr. 
Eedmain ;  Mr.  Eedmain  would  thank  her,  but  never  trouble 
himself  to  do  as  much  for  her.  His  attentions,  indeed,  were 
seldom -wasted  at  home ;  but  he  was  not  often  rude  to  anybody 
save  his  wife  and  his  man,  except  when  he  was  ill. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  he  began  to  feel  any  interest  in 
Mary.     He  knew  nothing  of  her  save  as  a  nice-looking  maid 


278  MARY  MARSTOK 

his  wife  had  got — rather  a  prim-looking  puss,  he  would  have 
said,  had  he  had  'occasion  to  describe  her.  What  Mary  knew 
of  him  was  merely  the  reflection  of  him  in  the  mind  of  his 
wife  ;  but,  the  first  time  she  saw  him,  she  felt  she  would  rather 
not  have  to  speak  to  him. 


OHAPTEE  XXXIV. 

A   STKAT   SOUND. 

Maey  went  to  see  Letty  as  often  as  she  could,  and  that  was 
not  seldom ;  but  she  had  scarcely  a  chance  of  seeing  Tom ; 
either  he  was  not  up,  or  had  gone — to  the  office,  Letty  sup- 
posed :  she  had  no  more  idea  of  where  the  office  was,  or  of  the 
other  localities  haunted  by  Tom,  than  he  himself  had  of  what 
spirit  he  was  of. 

One  day,  when  Mary  could  not  help  remarking  upon  her 
pale,  weary  looks,  Letty  burst  into  tears,  and  confided  to  her  a 
secret  of  which  she  was  not  the  less  proud  that  it  caused  her 
anxiety  and  fear.  As  soon  as  she  began  to  talk  about  it,  the 
joy  of  its  hope  began  to  predominate,  and  before  Mary  left  her 
she  might  have  seemed  to  a  stranger  the  most  blessed  little 
creature  in  the  world.  The  greatness  of  her  delight  made 
Mary  sad  for  her.  To  any  thoughtful  heart  it  must  be  sad  to 
think  what  a  little  time  the  joy  of  so  many  mothers  lasts — not 
because  their  babies  die,  but  because  they  live ;  but  Mary's 
mournfulness  was  caused  by  the  fear  that  the  splendid  dawn  of 
mother-hope  would  soon  be  swallowed  in  dismal  clouds  of 
father-fault.  For  mothers  and  for  wives  there  is  no  redemp- 
tion, no  unchaining  of  love,  save  by  the  coming  of  the  king- 
dom— in  themselves.  Oh  !  why  do  not  mothers,  sore-hearted 
mothers  at  least,  if  none  else  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  rush  to 
the  feet  of  the  Son  of  Mary  ? 

Yet  every  birth  is  but  another  link  in  the  golden  chain  by 
which  the  world  shall  be  lifted  to  the  feet  of  God.  It  is  only 
by  the  birth  of  new  children,  ever  fresh  material  for  the  ere- 


A  STRAY  SOUND.  279 

ative  Spirit  of  the  Son  of  Man  to  work  upon,  that  the  world 
can  finally  be  redeemed.  Letty  had  no  ideas  about  children, 
only,  the  usual  instincts  of  appropriation  and  indulgence  ;  Mary 
had  a  few,  for  she  recalled  with  delight  some  of  her  father's 
ways  with  herself.  Him  she  knew  as,  next  to  God,  the  source 
of  her  life,  so  well  had  he  fulfilled  that  first  duty  of  all  parents 
— the  transmission  of  life.  About  such  things  she  tried  to 
talk  to  Letty,  but  soon  perceived  that  not  a  particle  of  .her 
thought  found  its  way  into  Letty's  mind  :  she  cared  nothing 
for  any  duty  concerned — only  for  the  joy  of  being  a  mother. 

She  grew  paler  yet  and  thinner  ;  dark  hollows  came  about 
her  eyes  ;  she  was  parting  with  life  to  give  it  to  her  child  ;  she 
lost  the  girlish  gayety  Tom  used  to  admire,  and  the  something 
more  lovely  that  was  taking  its  place  he  was  not  capable  of  see- 
ing. He  gave  her  less  and  less  of  his  company.  His  counte- 
nance did  not  shine  on  her  ;  in  her  heart  she  grew  aware  that 
she  feared  him,  and,  ever  as  she  shrunk,  he  withdrew.  Had  it 
not  now  been  for  Mary,  she  would  likely  have  died.  She  did 
all  for  her  that  friend  could.  As  often  as  she  seemed  able,  she 
would  take  her  for  a  drive,  or  on  the  river,  that  the  wind,  like 
a  sensible  presence  of  God,  might  blow  upon  her,  and  give  her 
fresh  life  to  take  home  with  her.  So  little  progress  did  she 
make  with  Hesper,  that  she  could  not  help  thinking  it  must 
have  been  for  Letty's  sake  she  was  allowed  to  go  to  London. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eedmain  went  again  to  Durnmelling,  but 
Mary  begged  Hesper  to  leave  her  behind.  She  told  her  the 
reason,  without  mentioning  the  name  of  the  friend  she  desired 
to  tend.  Hesper  shrugged  her  shoulders,  as  much  as  to  say 
she  wondered  at  her  taste  ;  but  she  did  not  believe  that  was  in 
reality  the  cause  of  her  wish,  and,  setting  herself  to  find  another, 
concluded  she  did  not  choose  to  show  herself  at  Testbridge  in 
her  new  position,  and,  afraid  of  losing  if  she  opposed  her,  let 
her  have  her  way.  Nor,  indeed,  was  she  so  necessary  to  her  at 
Durnmelling,  where  there  were  few  visitors,  and  comparatively 
little  dressing  was  required  :  for  the  mere  routine  of  such  ordi- 
nary days,  Jemima  was  enough,  who,  now  and  then  called  by 
Mary  to  her  aid,  had  proved  herself  handy  and  capable,  and 
had  learned  much. 


280  MART  MARSTON. 

So,  all  through  the  hottest  of  the  late  summer  and  autumn 
weather,  Mary  remained  in  London,  where  every  pavement 
seemed  like  the  floor  of  a  baker's  oven,  and,  for  all  the  life  with 
which  the  city  swarmed,  the  little  winds  that  wandered  through 
it  seemed  to  have  lost  their  vitality.  How  she  longed  for  the 
common  and  the  fields  and  the  woods,  where  the  very  essence 
of  life  seemed  to  dwell  in  the  atmosphere  even  when  stillest,  and 
the  joy  that  came  pouring  from  the  throats  of  the  birds  seemed 
to  flow  first  from  her  own  soul  into  them  !  The  very  streets 
and  lanes  of  Testbridge  looked  like  paradise  to  Mary  in  Lon- 
don. But  she  never  wished  herself  in  the  shop  again,  although 
almost  every  night  she  dreamed  of  the  glad  old  time  when  her 
father  was  in  it  with  her,  and  when,  although  they  might  not 
speak  from  morning  to  night,  their  souls  kept  talking  across 
crowd  and  counters,  and  each  was  always  aware  of  the  other's 
supporting  presence. 

Longing,  however,  is  not  necessarily  pain — it  may,  indeed, 
be  intensest  bliss  ;  and,  if  Mary  longed  for  the  freedom  of  the 
country,  it  was  not  to  be  miserable  that  she  could  not  have  it. 
Her  mere  thought  of  it  was  to  her  a  greater  delight  than  the 
presence  of  all  its  joys  is  to  many  who  desire  them  the  most. 
That  such  things,  and  the  possibility  of  such  sensations  from 
them,  should  be  in  the  world,  was  enough  to  make  Mary  jubi- 
lant. But,  then,  she  was  at  peace  with  her  conscience,  and  had 
her  heart  full  of  loving  duty.  Besides,  an  active  patience  is  a 
heavenly  power.  Mary  could  not  only  walk  along  a  pavement 
dry  and  lifeless  as  the  Sahara,  enjoying  the  summer  that 
brooded  all  about  and  beyond  the  city,  but  she  bore  the  re- 
freshment of  blowing  winds  and  running  waters  into  Letty's 
hot  room,  with  the  clanging  street  in  front,  and  the  little 
yard  behind,  where,  from  a  cord  stretched  across  between  the 
walls,  hung  a  few  pieces  of  ill-washed  linen,  motionless  in  the 
glare,  two  plump  sparrows  picking  up  crumbs  in  their  shadow 
— into  this  live  death  Mary  would  carry  a  tone  of  breeze, 
and  sailing  cloud,  and  swaying  tree-top.  In  her  the  life  was 
so  concentrated  and  active  that  she  was  capable  of  commu- 
nicating life — the  highest  of  human  endowments. 

One  evening,  as  Letty  was  telling  her  how  the  dressmaker 


A  STRAY  SOUND.  281 

up  stairs  had  been  for  some  time  unwell,  and  Mary  was  feeling 
reproachful  that  she  had  not  told  her  before,  that  she  might 
have  seen  what  she  could  do  for  her,  they  became  aware,  it 
seemed  gradually,  of  one  softest,  sweetest,  faintest  music-tone 
coming  from  somewhere — but  not  seeming  sufficiently  of  this 
world  to  disclose  whence.  Mary  went  to  the  window  :  there 
was  nothing  capable  of  music  within  sight.  It  came  again  ; 
and  intermittingly  came  and  came.  For  some  time  they  would 
hear  nothing  at  all,  and  then  again  the  most  delicate  of  tones 
would  creep  into  their  ears,  bringing  with  it  more,  it  seemed 
to  Mary  in  the  surprise  of  its  sweetness,  than  she  could  have 
believed  single  tone  capable  of  carrying.  Once  or  twice  a  few 
consecutive  sounds  made  a  division  strangely  sweet ;  and  then 
again,  for  a  time,  nothing  would  reach  them  but  a  note  here 
and  a  note  there  of  what  she  was  fain  to  imagine  a  wonderful 
melody.  The  visitation  lasted  for  about  an  hour,  then  ceased. 
Letty  went  to  bed,  and  all  night  long  dreamed  she  heard  the 
angels  calling  her.  She  woke  weeping  that  her  time  was  come 
so  early,  while  as  yet  she  had  tasted  so  little  of  the  pleasure  of 
life.  But  the  truth  was,  she  had  as  yet,  poor  child,  got  so  lit- 
tle of  the  good  of  life,  that  it  was  not  at  all  time  for  her  to  go. 

When  her  hour  drew  near,  Tom  condescended — unwilling- 
ly, I  am  sorry  to  say,  for  he  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  under- 
stand her  feelings — to  leave  word  where  he  might  be  found  if 
he  should  be  wanted.  Even  this  assuagement  of  her  fears 
Letty  had  to  plead  for  ;  Mary's  being  so  much  with  her  was  to 
him  reason,  and  he  made  it  excuse,  for  absence  ;  he  had  begun 
to  dread  Mary.  ISTor,  when  at  length  he  was  sent  for,  was  he 
in  any  great  haste  ;  all  was  well  over  ere  he  arrived.  But  he 
was  a  little  touched  when,  drawing  his  face  down  to  hers,  she 
feebly  whispered,  "  He's  as  like  to  you,  Tom,  as  ever  small  thing 
was  to  great ! "  She  saw  the  slight  emotion,  and  fell  asleep 
comforted. 

It  was  night  when  she  woke.     Mary  was  sitting  by  her. 

"0  Mary!"  she  cried,  "the  angels  have  been  calling  me 
again.     Did  you  hear  them  ?  " 

"No,"  answered  Mary,  a  little  coldly,  for,  if  ever  she  was 
inclined  to  be  hard,  it  was  toward  self-sentiment.     "Why  do 


282.  MART  MARSTOK 

you  think  the  angels  should  call  you  ?  Do  you  suppose  them 
very  desirous  of  your  company  ?  " 

"They  do  call  people,"  returned  Letty,  almost  crying; 
"  and  I  don't  know  why  they  mightn't  call  me.  I'm  not  such 
a  very  wicked  person  ! " 

Mary's  heart  smote  her ;  she  was  refusing  Letty  the  time 
God  was  giving  her  !  She  could  not  wake  her  up,  and,  while 
God  was  waking  her,  she  was  impatient ! 

"I  heard  the  call,  too,  Letty,"  she  said;  "but  it  was  not 
the  angels.  It  was  the  same  instrument  we  heard  the  other 
night.  Who  can  there  be  in  the  house  to  play  like  that  ?  It 
was  clearer  this  time.  I  thought  I  could  listen  to  it  a  whole 
year." 

"Why  didn't  you  wake  me  ?"  said  Letty. 

"Because  the  more  you  sleep  the  better.  And  the  doctor 
says  I  mustn't  let  you  talk.  I  will  get  you  something,  and 
then  you  must  go  to  sleep  again." 

Tom  did  not  appear  any  more  that  night ;  and,  if  they  had 
wanted  him  now,  they  would  not  have  known  where  to  find 
him.  He  was  about  nothing  very  bad — only  supping  with 
some  friends — such  friends  as  he  did  not  even  care  to  tell  that 
he  had  a  son. 

He  was  ashamed  of  being  in  London  at  this  time  of  the 
year,  and,  but  that  he  had  not  money  enough  to  go  anywhere 
except  to  his  mother's,  he  would  have  gone,  and  left  Letty  to 
shift  for  herself. 

With  his  child  he  was  pleased,  and  would  not  seldom  take 
him  for  a  few  moments  ;  but,  when  he  cried,  he  was  cross  with 
him,  and  showed  himself  the  unreasonable  baby  of  the  two. 

The  angels  did  not  want  Letty  just  yet,  and  she  slowly  re- 
covered. 

For  Mary  it  was  a  peaceful  time.  She  was  able  to  read  a 
good  deal,  and,  although  there  were  no  books  in  Mr.  Eedmain's 
house,  she  generally  succeeded  in  getting  such  as  she  wanted. 
She  was  able  also  to  practice  as  much  as  she  pleased,  for  now 
the  grand  piano  was  entirely  at  her  service,  and  she  took  the 
opportunity  of  having  a  lesson  every  day. 


TEE  MUSICIAN.  283 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE   MUSICIAN". 

One  evening,  soon  after  the  baby's  arrival,  as  Mary  sat  with 
him  in  her  lap,  the  sweet  tones  they  had  heard  twice  before 
came  creeping  into  her  ears  so  gently  that  she  seemed  to  be 
aware  of  their  presence  only  after  they  had  been  for  some  time 
coming  and  going  :  she  laid  the  baby  down,  and,  stealing  from 
the  room,  listened  on  the  landing.  Certainly  the  sounds  were 
born  in  the  honse,  bnt  whether  they  came  from  below  or  above 
she  could  not  tell.  Going  first  down  the  stair,  and  then  up, 
she  soon  satisfied  herself  that  they  came  from  above,  and  there- 
upon ventured  a  little  farther  up  the  stair. 

She  had  already  been  to  see  the  dressmaker,  whom  she  had 
come  to  know  through  the  making  of  Hesper's  twilight  robe 
of  cloud,  had  found  her  far  from  well,  and  had  done  what  she 
could  for  her.  But  she  was  in  no  want,  and  of  more  than 
ordinary  independence — a  Yorkshire  woman,  about  forty  years 
of  age,  delicate,  but  of  great  patience  and  courage ;  a  plain, 
fair,  freckled  woman,  with  a  belief  in  religion  rather  than  in 
God.  Very  strict,  therefore,  in  her  observances,  she  thought  a 
great  deal  more  of  the  Sabbath  than  of  man,  a  great  deal  more 
of  the  Bible  than  of  the  truth,  and  ten  times  more  of  her  creed 
than  of  the  will  of  God ;  and,  had  she  heard  any  one  utter  such 
words  as  I  have  just  written,  would  have  said  he  was  an  atheist. 
She  was  a  worthy  creature,  notwithstanding,  only  very  un- 
pleasant if  one  happened  to  step  on  the  toes  of  a  pet  ignorance. 
Mary  soon  discovered  that  there  was  no  profit  in  talking  with 
her  on  the  subjects  she  loved  most :  plainly  she  knew  little 
about  them,  except  at  second  hand — that  is,  through  the  forms 
of  other  minds  than  her  own.  Such  people  seem  intended  for 
the  special  furtherance  of  the  saints  in-  patience  ;  being  utterly 
unassailable  by  reason,  they  are  especially  trying  to  those  who 
desire  to  stand  on  brotherly  terms  with  all  men,  and  so  are  the 
more  sensitive  to  the  rudeness  that  always  goes  with  moral 
stupidity  ;  intellectual  stupidity  may  coexist  with  the  loveliness 
of  an  angel.     It  is  one  of  the  blessed  hopes  of  the  world  to 


284  MARY  MARSTOK 

come,  that  there  will  be  none  such  in  it.  But  why  so  many- 
words  ?  I  say  to  myself,  Will  one  of  such  as  I  mean  recognize 
his  portrait  in  my  sketch  ?  Many  such  have  I  met  in  my 
young  days,  and  in  my  old  days  I  find  they  swarm  still.  I 
could  wish  that  all  such  had  to  earn  their  own  bread  like  Ann 
Byrom  :  had  she  been  rich,  she  would  have  been  unbearable. 
Women  like  her,  when  they  are  well  to  do,  walk  with  a  manly 
stride,  make  the  tails  of  their  dresses  go  like  the  screw  of  a 
steamer  behind  them,  and  are  not  unfrequently  Scotch. 

As  Mary  went  up,  the  music  ceased  ;  but,  hoping  Miss  By- 
rom would  be  able  to  enlighten  her  concerning  its  source,  she 
continued  her  ascent,  and  knocked  at  her  door.  A  voice, 
rather  wooden,  yet  not  without  character,  invited  her  to  enter. 

Ann  sat  near  the  window,  for,  although  it  was  quite  dusk, 
a  little  use  might  yet  be  made  of  the  lingering  ghost  of  the  day- 
light. Almost  all  Mary  could  see  of  her  was  the  reflection 
from  the  round  eyes  of  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Byrom  ?"  she  said. 

"Not  at  all  well,"  answered  Ann,  almost  in  a  tone  of  of- 
fense. 

"  Is  there  nothing  I  can  do  for  you  ?"  asked  Mary. 

"We  are  to  owe  no  man  anything  but  love,  the  apostle 
tells  us." 

"You  must  owe  a  good  deal  of  that,  then,"  said  Mary,  one 
part  vexed,  and  two  parts  amused,  "for  you  don't  seem  to  pay 
much  of  it. " 

She  was  just  beginning  to  be  sorry  for  what  she  had  said 
when  she  was  startled  by  a  sound,  very  like  a  little  laugh, 
which  seemed  to  come  from  behind  her.  She  turned  quickly, 
but,  before  she  could  see  anything  through  the  darkness,  the 
softest  of  violin-tones  thrilled  the  air  close  beside  her,  and  then 
she  saw,  seated  on  the  corner  of  Ann's  bed,  the  figure  of  a  man 
— young  or  old,  she  could  not  tell.  How  could  he  have  kept 
so  still  !  His  bow  was  wandering  slowly  about  over  the  strings 
of  his  violin ;  but  presently,  having  overcome,  as  it  seemed, 
with  the  help  of  his  instrument,  his  inclination  to  laugh,  he 
ceased,  and  all  was  still. 

"  I  came,"  said  Mary,  turning  again  to  Ann,  "  hoping  you 


TEE  MUSICIAN.  285 

might  be  able  to  tell  me  where  the  sweet  sounds  came  from 
which  we  have  heard  now  two  or  three  times ;  but  I  had  no 
idea  there  was  any  one  in  the  room  besides  yourself. — They 
come  at  intervals  a  great  deal  too  long,"  she  added,  turning 
toward  the  figure  in  the  darkness. 

"I  am  afraid  my  ear  is  out  sometimes,"  said  the  man,  mis- 
taking her  remark.     "  I  think  it  comes  of  the  anvil." 

The  voice  was  manly,  though  gentle,  and  gave  an  impres- 
sion of  utter  directness  and  simplicity.  It  was  Mary's  turn, 
however,  not  to  understand,  and  she  made  no  answer. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  the  musician  went  on,  "if  I  annoyed 
you,  miss." 

Mary  was  hastening  to  assure  him  that  the  fact  was  cpiite 
the  other  way,  when  Ann  prevented  her. 

"I  told  you  so!"  she  said;  ''you  make  an  idol  of  your 
foolish  plaything,  but  other  people  take  it  only  for  the  nui- 
sance it  is." 

"Indeed,  you  never  were  more  mistaken,"  said  Mary. 
"  Both  Mrs.  Helmer  and  myself  are  charmed  with  the  little 
that  reaches  us.  It  is,  indeed,  seldom  one  hears  tones  of  such 
purity." 

The  player  responded  with  a  sigh  of  pleasure. 

"Now  there  you  are,  miss,"  cried  Ann,  " a-flattering  of  his 
folly  tillnot  a  word  I  say  will  be  of  the  smallest  use  !  " 

"  If  your  words  are  not  wise,"  said  Mary,  with  suppressed 
indignation,  "the  less  he  heeds  them  the  better." 

"  It  ain't  wise,  to  my  judgment,  miss,  to  make  a  man  think 
himself  something  when  he  is  nothing.  It's  quite  enough  a 
man  should  deceive  his  own  self,  without  another  to  come  and 
help  him." 

"  To  speak  the  truth  is  not  to  deceive,"  replied  Mary.  "  I 
have  some  knowledge  of  music,  and  I  say  only  what  is  true." 

"  What  good  can  it  be  spending  his  time  scraping  horse- 
hair athort  catgut  ?  " 

"  They  must  fancy  some  good  in  it  up  in  heaven,"  said 
Mary,  "or  they  wouldn't  have  so  much  of  it  there." 

"There  ain't  no  fiddles  in  heaven,"  said  Ann,  with  indig- 
nation ;  "  they've  nothing  there  but  harps  and  trumpets." 


286  MARY  MARSTON. 

Mary  turned  to  the  man,  who  had  not  said  a  word. 

"Would  you  mind  coming  down  with  me,"  she  said,  "and 
playing  a  little,  very  softly,  to  my  friend  ?  She  has  a  little 
bahy,  and  is  not  strong.     It  would  do  her  good." 

"She'd  better  read  her  Bible,"  said  Ann,  who,  finding  she 
could  no  longer  see,  was  lighting  a  candle. 

"She  does  read  her  Bible,"  returned  Mary;  "and  a  little 
music  would,  perhaps,  help  her  to  read  it  to  better  purpose." 

"  There,  Ann  ! "  cried  the  player. 

The  woman  replied  with  a  scornful  grunt. 

"  Two  fools  don't  make  a  wise  man,  for  all  the  franchise," 
she  said. 

But  Mary  had  once  more  turned  toward  the  musician,  and 
in  the  light  of  the  candle  was  met  by  a  pair  of  black  eyes, 
keen  yet  soft,  looking  out  from  under  an  overhanging  ridge 
of  forehead.  The  rest  of  the  face  was  in  shadow,  but  she 
could  see  by  the  whiteness,  through  a  beard  that  clouded  all  the 
lower  part  of  it,  that  he  was  smiling  to  himself  :  Mary  had 
said  what  pleased  him,  and  his  eyes  sought  her  face,  and  seemed 
to  rest  on  it  with  a  kind  of  trust,  and  a  look  as  if  he  was  ready 
to  do  whatever  she  might  ask  of  him. 

"You  will  come  ?"  said  Mary. 

"Yes,  miss,  with  all  my  heart,"  he  replied,  and  flashed  a 
full  smile  that  rested  upon  Ann,  and  seemed  to  say  he  knew 
her  not  so  hard  as  she  looked. 

Eising,  he  tucked  his  violin  under  his  arm,  and  showed 
himself  ready  to  follow. 

"  Good  night,  Miss  Byrom,"  said  Mary. 

"  Good  night,  miss,"  returned  Ann,  grimly.  "  I'm  sorry 
for  you  both,  miss.  But,  until  the  spirit  is  poured  out  from  on 
high,  it's  nothing  but  a  stumbling  in  the  dark." 

This  last  utterance  was  a  reflection  rather  than  a  remark. 

Mary  made  no  reply.  She  did  not  care  to  have  the  last 
word ;  nor  did  she  fancy  her  cause  lost  when  she  had  not  at 
hand  the  answer  that  befitted  folly.  She  ran  down  the  stair, 
and  at  the  bottom  stood  waiting  her  new  acquaintance,  who 
descended  more  slowly,  careful  not  to  make  a  noise. 

She  could  now  see,  by  the  gaslight  that  burned  on  the 


the  musician:  287 

landing,  a  little  more  of  what  the  man  was.  He  was  power- 
fully built,  rather  over  middle  height,  and  about  the  age  of 
thirty.  His  complexion  was  dark,  and  the  hand  that  held  the 
bow  looked  grimy.  He  bore  himself  well,  but  a  little  stiffly, 
with  a  care  over  his  violin  like  that  of  a  man  carrying  a  baby. 
He  was  decidedly  handsome,  in  a  rugged  way — mouth  and  chin 
but  hinted  through  a  thick  beard  of  darkest  brown. 

"Come  this  way,"  said  Mary,  leading  him  into  Letty's 
parlor.  ' '  I  will  tell  my  friend  you  are  come.  Her  room,  you 
see,  opens  off  this,  and  she  will  hear  you  delightfully.  Pray, 
take  a  seat." 

"Thank  you,  miss,"  said  the  man,  but  remained  standing. 

"I  have  caught  the  bird,  Letty,"  said  Mary,  loud  enough 
for  him  to  hear ;  "  and  he  is  come  to  sing  a  little  to  you — if  you 
feel  strong  enough  for  it." 

"  It  will  do  me  good,"  said  Letty.     "How  kind  of  him  !" 

The  man,  having  heard,  was  already  tuning  his  violin  when 
Mary  came  from  the  bedroom,  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa.  The 
instant  he  had  got  it  to  his  mind,  he  turned,  and,  going  to  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  room,  closed  his  eyes  tight,  and  began 
to  play. 

But  how  shall  I  describe  that  playing  ?  how  convey  an  idea 
of  it,  however  remote  ?  I  fear  it  is  nothing  less  than  presump- 
tion in  me,  so  great  is  my  ignorance,  to  attempt  the  thing. 
But  would  it  be  right,  for  dread  of  bringing  shame  upon  me 
through  failure,  to  leave  my  readers  without  any  notion  of  it 
at  all  ?  On  the  other  hand,  I  shall,  at  least,  have  the  merit  of 
daring  to  fail — a  merit  of  which  I  could  well  be  ambitious. 

If,  then,  my  reader  will  imagine  some  music-loving  sylph 
attempting  to  guide  the  wind  among  the  strings  of  an  iEolian 
harp,  every  now  and  then  for  a  moment  succeeding,  and  then 
again  for  a  while  the  wind  having  its  own  way,  he  will  gain,  I 
think,  something  like  a  dream-notion  of  the  man's  playing. 
Mary  tried  hard  to  get  hold  of  some  clew  to  the  combinations 
and  sequences,  but  the  motive  of  them  she  could  not  find. 
"Whatever  their  source,  there  was,  either  in  the  composition 
itself  or  in  his  mode  of  playing,  not  a  little  of  the  inartistic, 
that  is,  the  lawless.     Yet  every  now  and  then  would  come  a 


288  MARY  HARST01T. 

passage  of  exquisite  melody,  owing  much,  however,  no  doubt, 
to  the  marvelous  delicacy  of  the  player's  tones,  and  the  utterly 
tender  expression  with  which  he  produced  them.  But  ever  as 
she  thought  to  get  some  insight  into  the  movement  of  the  man's 
mind,  still  would  she  be  swept  away  on  the  storm  of  some 
change,  seeming  of  mood  incongruous. 

At  length  came  a  little  pause.  He  wiped  his  forehead  with 
a  blue  cotton  handkerchief,  and  seemed  ready  to  begin  again. 
Mary  interrupted  him  with  the  question  : 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  whose  music  you  have  been  play- 
ing ?" 

He  opened  his  eyes,  which  had  remained  closed  even  while 
he  stood  motionless,  and,  with  a  smile  sweeter  than  any  she 
had  ever  seen  on  such  a  strong  face,  answered  : 

"It's  nobody's,  miss." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  have  been  extemporizing  all  this  time  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  what  that  means." 

"You  must  have  learned  it  from  notes  ?  " 

"I  couldn't  read  them  if  I  had  any  to.  read,"  he  answered. 

"  Then  what  an  ear  and  what  a  memory  you  must  have  ! 
How  often  have  you  heard  it  ?  " 

"Just  as  often  as  I've  played  it,  and  no  oftener.  Not  be- 
ing able  to  read,  and  seldom  hearing  any  music  I  care  for,  I'm 
forced  to  be  content  with  what  runs  out  at  my  fingers  when  I 
shut  my  eyes.  It  all  comes  of  shutting  my  eyes.  I  couldn't 
play  a  thing  but  for  shutting  my  eyes.  It's  a  wonderful 
deal  that  comes  of  shutting  your  eyes  !  Did  you  never  try  it, 
miss  ?  " 

Mary  was  so  astonished  both  by  what  he  said  and  the  sim- 
plicity with  which  he  said  it,  having  clearly  no  notion  that 
he  was  uttering  anything  strange,  that  she  was  silent,  and  the 
man,  after  a  moment's  re  tuning,  began  again  to  play.  Then 
did  Mary  gather  all  her  listening  powers,  and  brace  her  atten- 
tion to  the  tightest — but  at  first  with  no  better  success.  And, 
indeed,  that  was  not  the  way  to  understand.  It  seems  to  me,  at 
least,  in  my  great  ignorance,  that  one  can  not  understand  mu- 
sic unless  he  is  humble  toward  it,  and  consents,  if  need  be,  not 
to  understand.     When  one  is  quiescent,  submissive,  opens  the 


THE  MUSICIAN.  289 

ears  of  the  mind,  and  demands  of  them  nothing  more  than  the 
hearing — when  the  rising  waters  of  question  retire  to  their  bed, 
and  individuality  is  still,  then  the  dews  and  rains  of  music, 
finding  the  way  clear  for  them,  soak  and  sink  through  the 
sands  of  the  mind,  down,  far  down,  below  the  thinking-place, 
down  to  the  region  of  music,  which  is  the  hidden  workshojD  of 
the  soul,  the  place  where  lies  ready  the  divine  material  for  man 
to  go  making  withal. 

Weary  at  last  with  vain  effort,  she  ceased  to  endeavor,  and 
in  a  little  while  was  herself  being  molded  by  the  music  un- 
consciously received  to  the  further  understanding  of  it.  It 
wrought  in  her  mind  pictures,  not  thoughts.  It  is  possible, 
however,  my  later  knowledge  may  affect  my  description  of 
what  Mary  then  saw  with  her  mind's  eye. 

First  there  was  a  crowd  in  slow,  then  rapid  movement. 
Arose  cries  and  entreaties.  Came  hurried  motions,  disruption, 
and  running  feet.  A  pause  followed.  Then  woke  a  lively 
melody,  changing  to  the  prayer  of  some  soul  too  grateful  to 
find  woids.  Next  came  a  bar  or  two  of  what  seemed  calm, 
lovely  speech,  then  a  few  slowly  delivered  chords,  and  all  was 
still. 

She  came  to  herself,  and  then  first  knew  that,  like  sleep, 
the  music  had  seized  her  unawares,  and  she  had  been  under- 
standing, or  at  least  enjoying,  without  knowing  it.  The  man 
was  approaching  her  from  his  dark  corner.  His  face  was  shin- 
ing, but  plainly  he  did  not  intend  more  music,  for  his  violin 
was  already  under  his  arm.  He  made  her  a  little  awkward 
bow — not  much  more  than  a  nod,  and  turned  to  the  door.  He 
had  it  half  open,  and  not  yet  could  Mary  speak.  For  Letty, 
she  was  fast  asleep. 

From  the  top  of  the  stair  came  the  voice  of  Ann,  scream- 
ing : 

"Here's  your  hat,  Joe.  I  knew  you'd  be  going  when  you 
played  that.     You'd  have  forgotten  it,  i"  know  ! " 

Mary  heard  the  hat  come  tumbling  down  the  stair. 
"  Thank  you,  Ann,"  returned  Joe.      "  Yes,  I'm  going. 
The  ladies  don't  care  much  for  my  music.     Nobody  does  but 
myself.     But,  then,  it's  good  for  me." 

13 


290  MARY  MARSTOK 

The  last  two  sentences  were  spoken  in  soliloquy,  but  Mary 
heard  them,  for  he  stood  with  the  handle  of  the  door  in  his 
hand.  He  closed  it,  picked  up  his  hat,  and  went  softly  down 
the  stair. 

The  spell  was  broken,  and  Mary  darted  to  the  door.  But, 
just  as  she  opened  it,  the  outer  door  closed  behind  the  strange 
musician,  and  she  had  not  even  learned  his  name. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

A   CHANGE. 

As  soon  as  Letty  had  strength  enough  to  attend  to  her  baby 
without  help,  Mary,  to  the  surprise  of  her  mistress,  and  the 
destruction  of  her  theory  concerning  her  stay  in  London,  pre- 
sented herself  at  Durnmelling,  found  that  she  was  more  wel- 
come than  looked  for,  and  the  same  hour  resumed  her  duties 
about  Hesper. 

It  was  with  curiously  mingled  feelings  that  she  gazed  from 
her  window  on  the  chimneys  of  Thornwick.  How  much  had 
come  to  her  since  first,  in  the  summer-seat  at  the  end  of  the 
yew-hedge,  Mr.  Wardour  opened  to  her  the  door  of  literature  ! 
It  was  now  autumn,  and  the  woods,  to  get  young  again,  were 
dying  their  yearly  death.  For  the  moment  she  felt  as  if  she, 
too,  had  begun  to  grow  old.  Ministration  had  tired  her  a  little 
— but,  oh  !  how  different  its  weariness  from  that  which  came 
of  labor  amid  obstruction  and  insult !  Her  heart  beat  a  little 
slower,  perhaps,  but  she  could  now.be  sad  without  losing  a  jot 
of  hope.  Nay,  rather,  the  least  approach  of  sadness  would 
begin  at  once  to  wake  her  hope.  She  regretted  nothing  that 
had  come,  nothing  that  had  gone.  She  believed  more  and 
more  that  not  anything  worth  having  is  ever  lost ;  that  even 
the  most  evanescent  shades  of  feeling  are  safe  for  those  who 
grow  after  their  true  nature,  toward  that  for  which  they  were 
made — in  other  and  higher  words,  after  the  will  of  God. 


A   CHANGE.  291 

But  she  did  for  a  moment  taste  some  bitterness  in  her  cup, 
when,  one  day,  on  the  footpath  of  Testbridge,  near  the  place 
where,  that  memorable  Sunday,  she  met  Mr.  Wardour,  she  met 
him  again,  and,  looking  at  her,  and  plainly  recognizing  her,  he 
passed  without  salutation.  Like  a  sudden  wave  the  blood  rose 
to  her  face,  and  then  sank  to  the  deeps  of  her  heart ;  and  from 
somewhere  came  the  conviction  that  one  day  the  destiny  of 
Godfrey  Wardour  would  be  in  her  hands  :  he  had  done  more 
for  her  than  any  but  her  father ;  and,  when  that  day  was  come, 
he  should  not  find  her  fail  him  ! 

She  was  then  on  her  way  to  the  shop.  She  did  not  at  all 
relish  entering  it,  but,  as  she  had  a  large  money-interest  in  the 
business,  she  ought  at  least,  she  said  to  herself,  to  pay  the  place 
a  visit.  When  she  went  in,  Turnbull  did  not  at  first  recognize 
her,  and,  taking  her  for  a  customer,  blossomed  into  repulsive 
suavity.  The  change  that  came  over  his  countenance,  when  he 
knew  her,  was  a  shadow  of  such  mingled  and  conflicting  shades 
that  she  felt  there  was  something  peculiar  in  it  which  she  must 
attempt  to  analyze.  It  remained  hardly  a  moment  to  encounter 
question,  but  was  almost  immediately  replaced  with  a  polite- 
ness evidently  false.  Then,  first,  she  began  to  be  aware  of  dis- 
trusting the  man. 

Asking  a  few  questions  about  the  business,  to  which  he  gave 
answers  most  satisfactory,  she  kept  casting  her  eyes  about  the 
shop,  unable  to  account  for  the  impression  the  look  of  it  made 
upon  her.  Either  her  eyes  had  formed  for  themselves  another 
scale,  and  could  no  more  rightly  judge  between  past  and  pres- 
ent, or  the  aspect  of  the  place  was  different,  and  not  so  satis- 
factory. Was  there  less  in  it  ?  she  asked  herself — or  was  it 
only  not  so  well  kept  as  when  she  left  it  ?  She  could  not  tell. 
Neither  could  she  understand  the  profound  but  distant  con- 
sideration with  which  Mr.  Turnbull  endeavored  to  behave  to 
her,  treating  her  like  a  stranger  to  whom  he  must,  against  his 
inclination,  manifest  all  possible  respect,  while  he  did  not  invite 
her  even  to  call  at  the  villa.  She  bought  a  pair  of  gloves  of  the 
young  woman  who  seemed  to  occupy  her  place,  paid  for  them, 
and  left  the  shop  without  speaking  to  any  one  else.  All  the 
time,  George  was  standing  behind  the  opposite  counter,  staring 


292  MART  MARSTOK 

at  her ;  but,  much  to  her  relief,  he  showed  no  other  sign  of 
recognition. 

Before  she  went  to  find  Beenie,  who  was  still  at  Testbridge, 
in  a  cottage  of  her  own,  she  felt  she  must  think  over  these 
things,  and  come,  if  possible,  to  some  conclusion  about  them. 
She  left  the  town,  therefore,  and  walked  homeward. 

What  did  it  all  mean  ?  She  knew  very  well  they  must 
look  down  on  her  ten  times  more  than  ever,  because  of  the 
menial  position  in  which  she  had  placed  herself,  sinking  there- 
by beyond  all  pretense  to  be  regarded  as  their  equal.  But,  if 
that  was  what  the  man's  behavior  meant,  why  was  he  so 
studiously — not  so  much  polite  as  respectful  ?  That  did  not 
use  to  be  Mr.  Turnbull's  way  where  he  looked  down  upon  one. 
And,  then,  what  did  the  shadow  preceding  this  behavior  mean  ? 
Was  there  not  in  it  something  more  than  annoyance  at  the 
sight  of  her  ?  It  was  with  an  effort  he  dismissed  it  !  She  had 
never  seen  that  look  upon  him  ! 

Then  there  was  the  impression  the  shop  made  on  her  !  Was 
there  anything  in  that  ?  Somehow  it  certainly  seemed  to  have 
a  shabby  look  !  Was  it  possible  anything  was  wrong  or  going 
wrong  with  the  concern  ?  Her  father  had  always  spoken  with 
great  respect  of  Mr.  Turnbull's  business  faculties,  but  she 
knew  he  had  never  troubled  himself  to  look  into  the  books  or 
know  how  they  stood  with  the  bank.  She  knew  also  that  Mr. 
Turnbull  was  greedy  after  money,  and  that  his  wife  was  am- 
bitious, and  hated  the  business.  But,  if  he  wanted  to  be  out 
of  it,  would  he  not  naturally  keep  it  up  to  the  best,  at  least  in 
appearance,  that  he  might  part  with  his  share  in  it  to  the 
better  advantage  ? 

She  turned,  and,  walking  back  to  the  town,  sought 
Beenie. 

The  old  woman  being  naturally  a  gossip,  Mary  was  hardly 
seated  before  she  began  to  pour  out  the  talk  of  the  town,  in 
which  came  presently  certain  rumors  concerning  Mr.  Turnbull 
— mainly  hints  at  speculation  and  loss. 

The  result  was  that  Mary  went  from  Beenie  to  the  lawyer 
in  whose  care  her  father  had  left  his  affairs.  He  was  an  old 
man,  and  had  been  ill ;  had  no  suspicion  of  anything  being 


A   CHANGE.  293 

■wrong,  but  would  look  into  the  matter  at  once.     She  went 
home,  and  troubled  herself  no  more. 

She  had  been  at  Durnmelling  but  a  few  days,  when  Mr. 
Eedmain,  wishing  to  see  how  things  were  on  his  estate  in 
Cornwall,  and  making  up  his  mind  to  run  down,  carelessly 
asked  his  wife  if  she  would  accompany  him  :  it  would  be  only 
for  a  few  days,  he  said  ;  but  a  breeze  or  two  from  the  Atlantic 
would  improve  her  complexion.  This  was  gracious ;  but  he 
was  always  more  polite  in  the  company  of  Lady  Margaret,  who 
continued  to  show  him  the  kindness  no  one  else  dared  or  was 
inclined  to  do.  For  some  years  he  had  suffered  increasingly 
from  recurrent  attacks  of  the  disease  to  which  I  have  already 
referred  ;  and,  whatever  might  be  the  motive  of  his  mother-in- 
law's  behavior,  certainly,  in  those  attacks,  it  was  a  comfort  to 
him  to  be  near  her.  On  such  occasions  in  London,  his  sole 
attendant  was  his  man  Mewks. 

Mary  was  delighted  to  see  more  of  her  country.  She  had 
traveled  very  little,  but  was  capable  of  gathering  ten  times 
more  from  a  journey  to  Cornwall  than  most  travelers  from 
one  through  Switzerland  itself.  The  place  to  which  they  went 
was  lonely  and  lovely,  and  Mary,  for  the  first  few  days,  enjoyed 
it  unspeakably. 

But  then,  suddenly,  as  was  not  unusual,  Mr.  Itedmain  was 
taken  ill.  For  some  reason  or  other,  he  had  sent  his  man  to 
London,  and  the  only  other  they  had  with  them,  besides  the 
coachman,  was  useless  in  such  a  need,  while  the  housekeeper 
who  lived  at  the  place  was  nearly  decrepit ;  so  that  of  the 
household  Mary  alone  was  capable  of  fit  attendance  in  the  sick- 
room. Hesper  shrunk,  almost  with  horror,  certainly  with  dis- 
gust, from  the  idea  of  having  anything  to  do  with  her  husband 
as  an  invalid.  When  she  had  the  choice  of  her  company,  she 
said,  she  would  not  choose  his.  Mewks  was  sent  for  at  once, 
but  did  not  arrive  before  the  patient  had  had  some  experience 
of  Mary's  tendance ;  nor,  after  he  came,  was  she  altogether 
without  opportunity  of  ministering  to  him.  The  attack  was  a 
long  and  severe  one,  delaying  for  many  weeks  their  return  to 
London,  where  Mr.  Redmain  declared  he  must  be,  at  any  risk, 
before  the  end  of  November. 


294  MARY  MARSTOm 

CHAPTEK  XXXVII. 

LYDGATE  STKEET. 

Lettt's  whole  life  was  now  gathered  about  her  boy,  and 
she  thought  little,  comparatively,  about  Tom.  And  Tom 
thought  so  little  about  her  that  he  did  not  perceive  the  dif- 
ference. When  he  came  home,  he  was  always  in  a  hurry  to  be 
gone  again.  He  had  always  something  important  to  do,  but  it 
never  showed  itself  to  Letty  in  the  shape  of  money.  He  gave 
her  a  little  now  and  then,  of  course,  and  she  made  it  go  in- 
credibly far,  but  it  was  ever  with  more  of  a  grudge  that  he 
gave  it.  The  influence  over  him  of  Sepia  was  scarcely  less  now 
that  she  was  gone  ;  but,  if  she  cared  for  him  at  all,  it  was  main- 
ly that,  being  now  not  a  little  stale-hearted,  his  devotion  re- 
minded her  pleasurably  of  a  time  when  other  passions  than 
those  of  self-preservation  were  strongest  in  her  ;  and  her  favor 
even  now  tended  only  to  the  increase  of  Tom's  growing  disap- 
pointment, for,  like  Macbeth,  he  had  begun  already  to  consider 
life  but  a  poor  affair.  Across  the  cloud  of  this  death  gleamed, 
certainly,  the  flashing  of  Sepia's  eyes,  or  the  softly  infolding 
dawn  of  her  smile,  but  only,  the  next  hour,  nay,  the  next  mo- 
ment, to  leave  all  darker  than  before.  Precious  is  the  favor  of 
any  true,  good  woman,  be  she  what  else  she  may  ;  but  what  is 
the  favor  of  one  without  heart  or  faith  or  self -giving  ?  Yet  is 
there  testimony  only  too  strong  and  terrible  to  the  demoniacal 
power,  enslaving  and  absorbing  as  the  arms  of  the  kraken,  of 
an  evil  woman  over  an  imaginative  youth.  Possibly,  did  he 
know  beforehand  her  nature,  he  would  not  love  her,  but,  know- 
ing it  only  too  late,  he  loves  and  curses  ;  calls  her  the  worst  of 
names,  yet  can  not  or  will  not  tear  himself  free  ;  after  a  fash- 
ion he  still  calls  love,  he  loves  the  demon,  and  hates  her  thrall- 
dom.  Happily  Tom  had  not  reached  this  depth  of  perdition  ; 
Sepia  was  prudent  for  herself,  and  knew,  none  better,  what 
she  was  about,  so  far  as  the  near  future  was  concerned,  there- 
fore held  him  at  arm's  length,  where  Tom  basked  in  a  light 
that  was  of  hell — for  what  is  a  hell,  or  a  woman  like  Sepia,  but 
an  inverted  creation  ? 


LTD  GATE  STREET.  295 

His  nature,  in  consequence,  was  in  all  directions  dissolving. 
He  drank  more  and  more  strong  drink,  fitting  fuel  to  such  his 
passion,  and  Sepia  liked  to  see  him  approach  with  his  eyes 
blazing.  There  are  not  many  women  like  her ;  she  is  a  rare 
type — but  not,  therefore,  to  be  passed  over  in  silence.  It  is  little 
consolation  that  the  man-eating  tiger  is  a  rare  animal,  if  one  of 
them  be  actually  on  the  path  ;  and  to  the  philosopher  a  possi- 
bility is  a  fact.  But  the  true  value  of  the  study  of  abnormal 
development  is  that,  in  the  deepest  sense,  such  development  is 
not  abnormal  at  all,  but  the  perfected  result  of  the  laws  that 
avenge  law-breach.  It  is  in  and  through  such  that  we  get 
glimpses,  down  the  gulf  of  a  moral  volcano,  to  the  infernal 
possibilities  of  the  human — the  lawless  rot  of  that  which,  in  its 
attainable  idea,  is  nothing  less  than  divine,  imagined,  foreseen, 
cherished,  and  labored  for,  by  the  Father  of  the  human.  Such 
inverted  possibility,  the  infernal  possibility,  I  mean,  lies  latent 
in  every  one  of  us,  and,  except  we  stir  ourselves  up  to  the  right, 
will  gradually,  from  a  possibility,  become  an  energy.  The  wise 
man  dares  not  yield  to  a  temptation,  were  it  only  for  the  terror 
that,  if  he  do,  he  will  yield  the  more  readily  again.  The  com- 
monplace critic,  who  recognizes  life  solely  upon  his  own  con- 
scious level,  mocks  equally  at  the  ideal  and  its  antipode,  inca- 
pable of  recognizing  the  art  of  Shakespeare  himself  as  true  to 
the  human  nature  that  will  not  be  human. 

I  have  said  that  Letty  did  her  best  with  what  money  Tom 
gave  her  ;  but  when  she  came  to  find  that  he  had  not  paid  the 
lodging  for  two  months  ;  that  the  payment  of  various  things  he 
had  told  her  to  order  and  he  would  see  to  had  been  neglected, 
and  that  the  tradespeople  were  getting  persistent  in  their  ap- 
plications ;  that,  when  she  told  him  anything  of  the  sort,  he 
treated  it  at  one  time  as  a  matter  of  no  consequence  which  he 
would  speedily  set  right,  at  another  as  behavior  of  the  creditor 
hugely  impertinent,  which  he  would  punish  by  making  him 
wait  his  time — her  heart  at  length  sank  within  her,  and  she 
felt  there  was  no  bulwark  between  her  and  a  sea  of  troubles ; 
she  felt  as  if  she  lay  already  in  the  depths  of  a  debtor's  jail. 
Therefore,  sparing  as  she  had  been  from  the  first,  she  was  more 
sparing  than  ever.     Not  only  would  she  buy  nothing  for  which 


296  MART  MAESTOK 

she  could  not  pay  down,  haying  often  in  consequence  to  go 
without  proper  food,  but,  even  when  she  had  a  little  in  hand, 
would  live  like  an  anchorite.  She  grew  very  thin ;  and,  in- 
deed, if  she  had  not  been  of  the  healthiest,  could  not  have 
stood  her  own  treatment  many  weeks. 

Her  baby  soon  began  to  show  suffering,  but  this  did  not 
make  her  alter  her  way,  or  drive  her  to  appeal  to  Tom.  She 
was  ignorant  of  the  simplest  things  a  mother  needs  to  know, 
and  never  imagined  her  abstinence  could  hurt  her  baby.  So 
long  as  she  went  on  nursing  him,  it  was  all  the  same,  she 
thought.  He  cried  so  much,  that  Tom  made  it  a  reason  with 
himself,  and  indeed  gave  it  as  one  to  Letty,  for  not  coming 
home  at  night :  the  child  would  not  let  him  sleep  ;  and  how 
was  he  to  do  his  work  if  he  had  not  his  night's  rest  ?  It  mat- 
tered little  with  semi-mechanical  professions  like  medicine  or 
the  law,  but  how  was  a  man  to  write  articles  such  as  he  wrote, 
not  to  mention  poetry,  except  he  had  the  repose  necessary  to 
the  redintegration  of  his  exhausted  brain  ?  The  baby  went  on 
crying,  and  the  mother's  heart  was  torn.  The  woman  of  the  t 
house  said  he  must  be  already  cutting  his  teeth,  and  recom- 
mended some  devilish  sirup.  Letty  bought  a  bottle  with  the 
next  money  she  got,  and  thought  it  did  him  good — because, 
lessening  his  appetite,  it  lessened  his  crying,  and  also  made 
him  sleep  more  than  he  ought. 

At  last  one  night  Tom  came  home  very  much  the  worse  of 
drink,  and  in  maudlin  affection  insisted  on  taking  the  baby 
from  its  cradle.  The  baby  shrieked.  Tom  was  angry  with 
the  weakling,  rated  him  soundly  for  ingratitude  to  "the  au- 
thor of  his  being,"  and  shook  him  roughly  to  teach  him  the 
good  manners  of  the  world  he  had  come  to. 

Thereat  in  Letty  sprang  up  the  mother,  erect  and  fierce. 
She  darted  to  Tom,  snatched  the  child  from  his  arms,  and 
turned  to  carry  him  to  the  inner  room.  But,  as  the  mother 
rose  in  Letty,  the  devil  rose  in  Tom.  If  what  followed  was 
not  the  doing  of  the  real  Tom,  it  was  the  doing  of  the  devil  to 
whom  the  real  Tom  had  opened  the  door.  With  one  stride  he 
overtook  his  wife,  and  mother  and  child  lay  together  on  the 
floor.     I  must  say  for  him  that,  even  in  his  drunkenness,  he 


LYDQATE  STREET.  297 

did  nut  strike  his  wife  as  he  would  have  struck  a  man  ;  it  was 
an  open-handed  blow  he  gave  her,  what,  in  familiar  language, 
is  called  a  box  on  the  ear,  but  for  days  she  carried  the  record 
of  it  on  her  cheek  in  five  red  finger-marks. 

When  he  saw  her  on  the  floor,  Tom's  bedazed  mind  came 
to  itself  ;  he  knew  what  he  had  done,  and  was  sobered.  But, 
alas  !  even  then  he  thought  more  of  the  wrong  he  had  done  to 
himself  as  a  gentleman  than  of  the  grievous  wound  he  had 
given  his  wife's  heart.  He  took  the  baby,  who  had  ceased  to 
cry  as  soon  as  he  was  in  his  mother's  arms,  and  laid  him  on  the 
rug,  then  lifted  the  bitterly  weeping  Letty,  placed  her  on  the 
sofa,  and  knelt  beside  her — not  humbly  to  entreat  her  par- 
don, but,  as  was  his  wont,  to  justify  himself  by  proving  that  all 
the  blame  was  hers,  and  that  she  had  wronged  him  greatly  in 
driving  him  to  do  such  a  thing.  This  for  apology  poor  Letty, 
never  having  had  from  him  fuller  acknowledgment  of  wrong, 
was  fain  to  accept.  She  turned  on  the  sofa,  threw  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  kissed  him,  and  clung  to  him  with  an  utter 
forgiveness.  But  all  it  did  for  Tom  was  to  restore  him  his 
good  opinion  of  himself,  and  enable  him  to  go  on  feeling  as 
much  of  a  gentleman  as.  before. 

Beconciled,  they  turned  to  the  baby.  He  was  pale,  his  eyes 
were  closed,  and  they  could  not  tell  whether  he  breathed.  In 
a  horrible  fright,  Tom  ran  for  the  doctor.  Before  he  returned 
with  him,  the  child  had  come  to,  and  the  doctor  could  discover 
no  injury  from  the  fall  they  told  him  he  had  had.  At  the 
same  time,  he  said  he  was  not  properly  nourished,  and  must 
have  better  food. 

This  was  a  fresh  difficulty  to  Letty  ;  it  was  a  call  for  more 
outlay.  And  now  their  landlady,  Avho  had  throughout  been 
very  kind,  was  in  trouble  about  her  own  rent,  and  began  to 
press  for  part  at  least  of  theirs.  Letty's  heart  seemed  to  labor 
under  a  stone.  She  forgot  that  there  was  a  thing  called  joy. 
So  sad  she  looked  that  the  good  woman,  full  of  pity,  assured 
her  that,  come  what  might,  she  should  not  be  turned  out, 
but  at  the  worst  would  only  have  to  go  a  story  higher,  to 
inferior  rooms.  The  rent  should  wait,  she  said,  until  bet- 
ter days.     But  this  kindness  relieved  Letty  only  a  little,  for 


298  MARY  MARSTOK 

the  rent  past  and  the  rent  to  come  hung  upon  her  like  a  cloak 
of  lead. 

Nor  was  even  debt  the  worst  that  now  oppressed  her.  For, 
possibly  from  the  fall,  but  more  from  the  prolonged  want  of 
suitable  nourishment  and  wise  treatment,  after  that  terrible 
night,  the  baby  grew  worse.  Many  were  the  tears  the  sleepless 
mother  shed  over  the  sallow  face  and  wasted  limbs  of  her  slum- 
bering treasure — her  one  antidote  to  countless  sorrows ;  and 
many  were  the  foolish  means  she  tried  to  restore  his  sinking 
vitality. 

Mary  had  written  to  her,  and  she  had  written  to  Mary ; 
but  she  had  said  nothing  of  the  straits  to  which  she  was  re- 
duced ;  that  would  have  been  to  bring  blame  upon  Tom.  But 
Mary,  with  her  fine  human  instinct,  felt  that  things  must  be 
going  worse  with  her  than  before  ;  and,  when  she  found  that 
her  return  was  indefinitely  postponed  by  Mr.  Eedmain's  illness, 
she  ventured  at  last  in  her  anxiety  upon  a  daring  measure  :  she 
wrote  to  Mr.  "Wardour,  telling  him  she  had  reason  to  fear 
things  were  not  going  well  with  Letty  Helmer,  and  suggesting, 
in  the  gentlest  way,  whether  it  might  not  now  be  time  to  let 
bygones  be  bygones,  and  make  some  inquiry  concerning  her. 

To  this  letter  Godfrey  returned  no  answer.  For  all  her  de- 
nial, he  had  never  ceased  to  believe  that  Mary  had  been  Letty's 
accomplice  throughout  that  miserable  affair ;  and  the  very 
name — the  Letty  and  the  Helmer — stung  him  to  the  quick. 
He  took  it,  therefore,  as  a  piece  of  utter  presumption  in  Mary  to 
write  to  him  about  Letty,  and  that  in  the  tone,  as  he  interpret- 
ed it,  of  one  reading  him  a  lesson  of  duty.  But,  while  he  was 
thus  indignant  with  Mary,  he  was  also  vexed  with  Letty  that 
she  should  not  herself  have  written  to  him  if  she  was  in  any 
need,  forgetting  that  he  had  never  hinted  at  any  door  of  com- 
munication open  between  him  and  her.  His  heart  quivered  at 
the  thought  that  she  might  be  in  distress  ;  he  had  known  for 
certain,  he  said,  the  fool  would  bring  her  to  misery  !  For  him- 
self, the  thought  of  Letty  was  an  ever-open  wound — with  an 
ever-present  pain,  now  dull  and  aching,  now  keen  and  sting- 
ing. The  agony  of  her  desertion,  he  said,  would  never  cease 
gnawing  at  his  heart  until  it  was  laid  in  the  grave  ;  like  most 


GODFREY  AND  LETTY.  299 

heathen  Christians,  he  thought  of  death  as  the  end  of  all  the 
joys,  sorrows,  and  interests  generally  of  this  life.  But,  while 
thus  he  brooded,  a  fierce  and  evil  joy  awoke  in  him  at  the 
thought  that  now  at  last  the  expected  hour  had  come  when  he 
would  heap  coals  of  fire  on  her  head.  He  was  still  fool  enough 
to  think  of  her  as  having  forsaken  him,  although  he  had  never 
given  her  ground  for  believing,  and  she  had  never  had  conceit 
enough  to  imagine,  that  he  cared  the  least  for  her  person.  If 
he  could  but  let  her  have  a  glimmer  of  what  she  had  lost  in 
losing  him  !     She  knew  what  she  had  gained  in  Tom  Helmer. 

He  passed  a  troubled  night,  dreamed  painfully,  and  started 
awake  to  renewed  pain.  Before  morning  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  take  the  first  train  to  London.  But  he  thought  far 
more  of  being  her  deliverer  than  of  bringing  her  deliverance. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

GODFEET     AND     LETTT. 

It  was  a  sad,  gloomy,  kindless  November  night,  when  God- 
frey arrived  in  London.  The  wind  was  cold,  the  pavements 
were  cold,  the  houses  seemed  to  be  not  only  cold  but  feeling 
it.  The  very  dust  that  blew  in  his  face  was  cold.  Now  cold 
is  a  powerful  ally  of  the  commonplace,  and  imagination  there- 
fore was  not  very  busy  in  the  bosom  of  Godfrey  Wardour  as  he 
went  to  find  Letty  Helmer,  which  was  just  as  well,  in  the  cir- 
cumstances. He  was  cool  to  the  very  heart  when  he  walked 
up  to  the  door  indicated  by  Mary,  and  rung  the  bell :  Mrs. 
Helmer  was  at  home  :  would  he  walk  up  stairs  ? 

It  was  not  a  house  of  ceremonies  ;  he  was  shown  up  and  up 
and  into  the  room  where  she  sat,  without  a  word  carried  before 
to  prepare  her  for  his  visit.  It  was  so  dark  that  he  could  see 
nothing  but  the  figure  of  one  at  work  by  a  table,  on  which 
stood  a  single  candle.  There  was  but  a  spark  of  fire  in-  the 
dreary  grate,  and  Letty  was  colder  than  any  one  could  know, 


300  MARY  MAR8T0K 

for  she  "was  at  the  moment  making  down  the  last  woolly  gar- 
ment she  had,  in  the  vain  hope  of  warming  her  baby. 

She  looked  np.  She  had  thought  it  was  the  landlady;  and 
had  waited  for  her  to  speak.  She  gazed  for  a  moment  in  be- 
wilderment, saw  who  it  was,  and  jumped  up  half  frightened, 
half  ready  to  go  wild  with  joy.  All  the  memories  of  Godfrey 
rushed  in  a  confused  heap  upon  her,  and  overwhelmed  her. 
She  ran  to  him,  and  the  same  moment  was  in  his  arms,  with 
her  head  on  his  shoulder,  weeping  tears  of  such  gladness  as  she 
had  not  known  since  the  first  week  of  her  marriage. 

Neither  spoke  for  some  time  ;  Letty  could  not  because  she 
was  crying,  and  Godfrey  would  not  because  he  did  not  want  to 
cry.  Those  few  moments  were  pure,  simple  happiness  to  both 
of  them  ;  to  Letty,  because  she  had  loved  him  from  childhood, 
and  hoped  that  all  was  to  be  as  of  old  between  them  ;  to  God- 
frey, because,  for  the  moment,  he  had  forgotten  himself,  and 
had  neither  thought  of  injury  nor  hope  of  love,  remembering 
only  the  old  days  and  the  Letty  that  used  to  be.  It  may  seem 
strange  that,  having  never  once  embraced  her  all  the  time  they 
lived  together,  he  should  do  so  now ;  but  Letty's  love  would 
any  time  have  responded  to  the  least  show  of  affection,  and 
when,  at  the  sight  of  his  face,  into  which  memory  had  called 
up  all  his  tenderness,  she  rushed  into  his  arms,  how  could  he 
help  kissing  her  ?  The  pity  was  that  he  had  not  kissed  her 
long  before.     Or  was  it  a  pity  ?    I  think  not. 

But  the  embrace  could  not  be  a  long  one.  Godfrey  was  the 
first  to  relax  its  strain,  and  Letty  responded  with  an  instant 
collapse  ;  for  instantly  she  feared  she  had  done  it  all,  and  dis- 
gusted Godfrey.  But  he  led  her  gently  to  the  sofa,  and  sat 
down  beside  her  on  the  hard  old  slippery  horsehair.  Then 
first  he  perceived  what  a  change  had  passed  upon  her.  Pale 
was  she,  and  thin,  and  sad,  with  such  big  eyes,  and  the  bone 
tightening  the  skin  upon  her  forehead  !  He  felt  as  if  she  were 
a  spectre-Letty,  not  the  Letty  he  had  loved.  Glancing  up,  she 
caught  his  troubled  gaze. 

"I  am  not  ill,  Cousin  Godfrey,"  she  said.  "Do  not  look 
at  me  so,  or  I  shall  cry  again.  You  know  you  never  liked  to 
see  me  cry." 


GODFREY  AND  LETTY.  301 

'*  My  poor  girl ! "  said  Godfrey,  in  a  voice  which,  if  he  had 
not  kept  it  lower  than  natural,  would  have  broken,  "you  are 
suffering. " 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not,"  replied  Letty,  with  a  pitiful  effort  at  the 
cheerful ;  "  I  am  only  so  glad  to  see  you  again,  Cousin  Godfrey." 

She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa,  and  had  put  her  open 
hands,  palm  to  palm,  between  her  knees,  in  a  childish  way, 
looking  like  one  chidden,  who  did  not  deserve  it,  but  was 
ready  to  endure.  For  a  moment  Godfrey  sat  gazing  at  her, 
with  troubled  heart  and  troubled  looks,  then  between  his  teeth 
muttered,  '"Damn  the  rascal  !" 

Letty  sat  straight  up,  and  turned  upon  him  eyes  of  appeal, 
scared,  yet  ready  to  defend.  Her  hands  were  now  clinched, 
one  on  each  side  of  her  ;  she  was  poking  the  little  fists  into  the 
squab  of  the  sofa. 

"Cousin  Godfrey!"  she  cried,  "if  you  mean  Tom,  you 
must  not,  you  must  not.  I  will  go  away  if  you  speak  a  word 
against  him.     I  will ;  I  will. — I  must,  you  know  !" 

Godfrey  made  no  reply — neither  apologized  nor  sought  to 
cover. 

"Why,  child  !"  he  said  at  last,  "you  are  half  starved  !" 

The  pity  and  tenderness  of  both  word  and  tone  were  too 
much  for  her.  She  had  not  been  at  all  pitying  herself,  but 
such  an  utterance  from  the  man  she  loved  like  an  elder  brother 
so  wrought  upon  her  enfeebled  condition  that  she  broke  into 
a  cry.  She  strove  to  suppress  her  emotion  ;  she  fought  with 
it ;  in  her  agony  she  would  have  rushed  from  the  room,  had 
not  Godfrey  caught  her,  drawn  her  down  beside  him,  and  kept 
her  there. 

"  You  shall  not  leave  me  ! "  he  said,  in  that  voice  Letty 
had  always  been  used  to  obey.  "Who  has  a  right  to  know 
how  things  go  with  you,  if  I  have  not  ?  Come,  you  must  tell 
me  all  about  it. " 

"  I  have  nothing  to  tell,  Cousin  Godfrey,"  she  replied  with 
some  calmness,  for  Godfrey's  decision  had  enabled  her  to  con- 
quer herself,  "except  that  baby  is  ill,  and  looks  as  if  he  would 
never  get  better,  and  it  is  like  to  break  my  heart.  Oh,  he  is 
such  a  darling,  Cousin  Godfrey  ! " 


302  MARY  MARSTOK 

"  Let  me  see  him/'  said  Godfrey,  in  his  heart  detesting  the 
child — the  visible  sign  that  another  was  nearer  to  Letty  than 
he. 

She  jumped  up,  almost  ran  into  the  next  room,  and,  com- 
ing back  with  her  little  one,  laid  him  in  Godfrey's  arms.  The 
moment  he  felt  the  weight  of  the  little,  sad-looking,  sleeping 
thing,  he  grew  human  toward  him,  and  saw  in  him  Letty  and 
not  Tom. 

"Good  God  !  the  child  is  starving,  too,"  he  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  no,  Cousin  Godfrey!"  cried  Letty;  "he  is  not 
starving.  He  had  a  fresh-laid  egg  for  breakfast  this  morning, 
and  some  arrowroot  for  dinner,  and  some  bread  and  milk  for 
tea—" 

"London  milk  !"  said  Godfrey. 

"Well,  it  is  not  like  the  milk  in  the  dairy  at  Thornwick," 
admitted  Letty.  "  If  he  had  milk  like  that,  he  would  soon  be 
well ! " 

But  Godfrey  dared  not  say,  "  Bring  him  to  Thornwick"  : 
he  knew  his  mother  too  well  for  that ! 

"When  were  you  anywhere  in  the  country?"  he  asked. 
In  a  negative  kind  of  way  he  was  still  nursing  the  baby. 

"  Not  since  we  were  married,"  she  answered,  sadly.  "  You 
see,  poor  Tom  can't  afford  it." 

Now  Godfrey  happened  to  have  heard,  "from  the  best  au- 
thority," that  Tom's  mother  was  far  from  illiberal  to  him. 

"  Mrs.  Helmer  allows  him  so  much  a  year — does  she  not  ?  " 
he  said. 

"  I  know  he  gets  money  from  her,  but  it  can't  be  much," 
she  answered. 

Godfrey's  suspicions  against  Tom  increased  every  moment. 
He  must  learn  the  truth.  He  would  have  it,  if  by  an  even 
cruel  experiment !  He  sat  a  moment  silent — then  said,  with 
assumed  cheerfulness  : 

"Well,  Letty,  I  suppose,  for  the  sake  of  old  times,  you  will 
give  me  some  dinner  ?  " 

Then,  indeed,  her  courage  gave  way.  She  turned  from  him, 
laid  her  head  on  the  end  of  the  sofa,  and  sobbed  so  that  the 
room  seemed  to  shake  with  the  convulsions  of  her  grief. 


GODFREY  AND  LETTY.  303 

"Letty,"  said  Godfrey,  laying  his  hand  on  her  head,  "it  is 
no  use  any  more  trying  to  hide  the  truth.  I  don't  want  any 
dinner  ;  in  fact,  I  dined  long  ago.  But  you  would  not  be  open 
with  me,  and  I  was  forced  to  find  out  for  myself :  you  have 
not  enough  to  eat,  and  you  know  it.  I  will  not  say  a  word 
about  who  is  to  blame — for  anything  I  know,  it  may  be  no  one 
— I  am  sure  it  is  not  you.  But  this  must  not  go  on  !  See,  I 
have  brought  you  a  little  pocket-book.  I  will  call  again  to- 
morrow, and  you  will  tell  me  then  how  you  like  it." 

He  laid  the  pocket-book  on  the  table.  There  was  ten  times 
as  much  in  it  as  ever  Letty  had  had  at  once.  But  she  never 
knew  what  was  in  it.  She  rose  with  instant  resolve.  All  the 
woman  in  her  waked  at  once.  She  felt  that  a  moment  was  come 
when  she  must  be  resolute,  or  lose  her  hold  on  life. 

"  Cousin  Godfrey,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  he  scarcely  recognized 
as  hers — it  frightened  him  as  if  it  came  from  a  sepulchre — "if 
you  do  not  take  that  purse  away,  I  will  throw  it  in  the  fire 
without  opening  it !  If  my  husband  can  not  give  me  enough 
to  eat,  I  can  starve  as  well  as  another.  If  you  loved  Tom,  it 
would  be  different,  but  you  hate  him,  and  I  will  have  nothing 
from  you.     Take  it  away,  Cousin  Godfrey." 

Mortified,  hurt,  miserable,  Godfrey  took  the  purse,  and, 
without  a  word,  walked  from  the  room.  Somewhere  down  in 
his  secret  heart  was  dawning  an  idea  of  Letty  beyond  anything 
he  used  to  think  of  her,  but  in  the  mean  time  he  was  only 
blindly  aware  that  his  heart  had  been  shot  through  and  through. 
Nor  was  this  the  time  for  him  to  reflect  that,  under  his  train- 
ing, Letty,  even  if  he  had  married  her,  would  never  have  grown 
to  such  dignity. 

It  was,  indeed,  only  in  that  moment  she  had  become  capa- 
ble of  the  action.  She  had  been  growing  as  none,  not  Mary, 
still  less  herself,  knew,  under  the  heavy  snows  of  affliction,  and 
this  was  her  first  blossom.  Not  many  of  my  readers  will  mis-- 
take  me,  I  trust.  Had  it  been  in  Letty  pride  that  refused  help 
from  such  an  old  friend,  that  pride  I  should  count  no  blossom, 
but  one  of  the  meanest  rags  that  ever  fluttered  to  scare  the 
birds.  But  the.  dignity  of  her  refusal  was  in  this — that  she 
would  accept  nothing  in  which  her  husband  had  and  could 


304  MARY  MARSTOK 

have  no  human,  that  is,  no  spiritual  share.  She  had  married 
him  because  she  loved  him,  and  she  would  hold  by  him  wher- 
ever that  might  lead  her :  not  wittingly  would  she  allow  the 
finest  edge,  even  of  ancient  kindness,  to  come  between  her 
Tom  and  herself !  To  accept  from  her  cousin  Godfrey  the 
help  her  husband  ought  to  provide  her,  would  be  to  let  him, 
however  innocently,  step  into  his  place  !  There  was  no  reason- 
ing in  her  resolve  :  it  was  allied  to  that  spiritual  insight  which, 
in  simple  natures,  and  in  proportion  to  their  simplicity,  ap- 
proaches or  amounts  to  prophecy.  As  the  presence  of  death 
will  sometimes  change  even  an  ordinary  man  to  a  prophet,  in 
times  of  sore  need  the  childlike  nature  may  well  receive  a 
vision  sufficing  to  direct  the  doubtful  step.  Letty  felt  that  the 
taking  of  that  money  would  be  the  opening  of  a  gulf  to  divide 
her  and  Tom  for  ever. 

The  moment  Godfrey  was  out  of  the  room  she  cast  herself 
on  the  floor,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  must  break.  But  her 
sobs  were  tearless.  And,  oh,  agony  of  agonies !  unsought 
came  the  conviction,  and  she  could  not  send  it  away — to  this 
had  sunk  her  lofty  idea  of  her  Tom  ! — that  he  would  have  had 
her  take  the  money  !  More  than  once  or  twice,  in  the  ill-hu- 
mors that  followed  a  forced  hilarity,  he  had  forgotten  his  claims 
to  being  a  gentleman  so  far  as — not  exactly  to  reproach  her 
with  having  brought  him  to  poverty — but  to  remind  her  that, 
if  she  was  poor,  she  was  no  poorer  than  she  had  been  when  de- 
pendent on  the  charity  of  a  distant  relation  ! 

The  baby  began  to  cry.  She  rose  and  took  him  from  the 
sofa  where  Godfrey  had  laid  him  when  he  was  getting  out  the 
pocket-book,  held  him  fast  to  her  bosom,  as  if.  by  laying  their 
two  aching  lives  together  they  might  both  be  healed,  and,  rock- 
ing him  to  and  fro,  said  to  herself,  for  the  first  time,  that  her 
trouble  was  greater  than  she  could  bear.  t(  0  baby  !  baby  ! 
baby  ! "  she  cried,  and  her  tears  streamed  on  the  little  wan  face. 
But,  as  she  sat  with  him  in  her  arms,  the  blessed  sleep  came, 
and  the  storm  sank  to  a  calm. 


RELIEF.  305 

CHAPTEE  XXXIX. 

RELIEF. 

It  was  dark,  utterly  dark,  when  she  woke.  For  a  minute 
she  could  not  remember  where  she  was.  The  candle  had  burned 
out :  it  must  be  late.  The  baby  was  on  her  lap— still,  very 
still.  One  faint  gleam  of  satisfaction  crossed  her  "during 
dark  "  at  the  thought  that  he  slept  so  peacefully,  hidden  from 
the  gloom  which,  somehow,  appeared  to  be  all  the  same  gloom 
outside  and  inside  of  her.     In  that  gloom  she  sat  alone. 

Suddenly  a  prayer  was  in  her  heart.  It  was  moving  there 
as  of  itself.  It  had  come  there  by  no  calling  of  it  thither,  by 
no  conscious  will  of  hers.  "  0  God,"  she  cried,  "  I  am  desolate  ! 
— Is  there  no  help  for  me  ? "  And  therewith  she  knew  that 
she  had  prayed,  and  knew  that  never  in  her  life  had  she  prayed 
before. 

She  started  to  her  feet  in  an  agony :  a  horrible  fear  had 
taken  possession  of  her.  With  one  arm  she  held  the  child  fast 
to  her  bosom,  with  the  other  hand  searched  in  vain  to  find  a 
match.  And  still,  as  she  searched,  the  baby  seemed  to  grow 
heavier  upon  her  arm,  and  the  fear  sickened  more  and  more  at 
her  heart. 

At  last  she  had  light !  and  the  face  of  the  child  came  out 
of  the  darkness.  But  the  child  himself  had  gone  away  into  it. 
The  Unspeakable  had  come  while  she  slept — had  come  and 
gone,  and  taken  her  child  with  him.  What  was  left  of  him 
was  no  more  good  to  kiss  than  the  last  doll  of  her  childhood  ! 

When  Tom  came  home,  there  was  his  wife  on  the  floor  as 
if  dead,  and  a  little  way  from  her  the  child,  dead  indeed,  and 
cold  with  death.  He  lifted  Letty  and  carried  her  to  the  bed, 
amazed  to  find  how  light  she  was :  it  was  long  since  he  had 
had  her  thus  in  his  arms.  Then  he  laid  her  dead  baby  by  her 
side,  and  ran  to  rouse  the  doctor.  He  came,  and  pronounced 
the  child  quite  dead — from  lack  of  nutrition,  he  said.  To  see 
Tom,  no  one  could  have  helped  contrasting  his  dress  and  ap- 
pearance with  the  look  and  surroundings  of  his  wife  ;  but  no 


306  MARY  MARSTOK 

one  would  have  been  ready  to  lay  blame  on  him ;  and,  as  for 
himself,  he  was  not  in  the  least  awake  to  the  fact  of  his  guilt. 

The  doctor  gave  the  landlady,  who  had  responded  at  once 
to  Tom's  call,  full  directions  for  the  care  of  the  bereaved  moth- 
er ;  Tom  handed  her  the  little  money  he  had  in  his  pocket,  and 
she  promised  to  do  her  best.  And  she  did  it ;  for  she  was  one 
of  those,  not  a  few,  who,  knowing  nothing  of  religion  toward 
God,  are  yet  full  of  religion  toward  their  fellows,  and  with  the 
Son  of  Man  that  goes  a  long  way.  As  soon  as  it  was  light,  Tom 
went  to  see  about  the  burying  of  his  baby. 

He  betook  himself  first  to  the  editor  of  "  The  Firefly,"  but 
had  to  wait  a  long  time  for  his  arrival  at  the  office.  He  told 
him  his  baby  was  dead,  and  he  wanted  money.  It  was  forth- 
coming at  once  ;  for  literary  men,  like  all  other  artists,  are  in 
general  as  ready  to  help  each  other  as  the  very  poor  themselves. 
There  is  less  generosity,  I  think,  among  business-men  than  in 
any  other  class.     The  more  honor  to  the  exceptions  ! 

"  But,"  said  the  editor,  who  had  noted  the  dry,  burning 
palm,  and  saAV  the  glazed,  fiery  eye  of  Tom,  "my  dear  fellow, 
you  ought  to  be  in  bed  yourself.  It's  no  use  taking  on  about 
the  poor  little  kid :  you  couldn't  help  it.  Go  home  to  your 
wife,  and  tell  her  she's  got  you  to  nurse  ;  and,  if  she's  in  any 
fix,  tell  her  to  come  to  me." 

Tom  went  home,  but  did  not  give  his  wife  the  message. 
She  lay  all  but  insensible,  never  asked  for  anything,  or  refused 
anything  that  was  offered  her,  never  said  a  word  about  her 
baby,  or  about  Tom,  or  seemed  to  be  more  than  when  she  lay 
in  her  mother's  lap.  Her  baby  was  buried,  and  she  knew  no- 
thing of  it.  Not  until  nine  days  were  over  did  she  begin  to 
revive. 

For  the  first  few  days,  Tom,  moved  with  undefined  remorse, 
tried  to  take  a  part  in  nursing  her.  She  took  things  from  him, 
as  she  did  from  the  landlady,  without  heed  or  recognition. 
Just  once,  opening  suddenly  her  eyes  wide  upon  him,  she  ut- 
tered a  feeble  wail  of  "  Baby  !  "  and,  turning  her  head,  did  not 
look  at  him  again.  Then,  first,  Tom's  conscience  gave  him  a 
sharp  sting. 

He  was  far  from  well.    The  careless  and  in  many  respects 


RELIEF.  307 

dissolute  life  he  had  been  leading  had  more  than  begun  to  tell 
on  a  constitution  by  no  means  strong,  but  he  had  never  become 
aware  of  his  weakness  nor  had  ever  felt  really  ill  until  now. 

But  that  sting,  although  the  first  sharp  one,  was  not  his  first 
warning  of  a  waking  conscience.  Ever  since  he  took  his  place 
at  his  wife's  bedside,  he  had  been  fighting  off  the  conviction 
that  he  was  a  brute.  He  would  not,  he  could  not  believe  it. 
What !  Tom  Helmer,  the  fine,  indubitable  fellow  !  such  as  he 
had  always  known  himself  ! — he  to  cower  before  his  own  con- 
sciousness as  a  man  .unworthy,  and  greatly  to  be  despised  ! 
The  chaos  was  come  again  !  And,  verily,  chaos  was  there,  but 
not  by  any  means  newly  come.  And,  moreover,  when  chaos 
begins  to  be  conscious  of  itself,  then  is  the  dawn  of  an  ordered 
world  at  hand.  Nay,  the  creation  of  it  is  already  begun,  and 
the  pangs  of  the  waking  conscience  are  the  prophecy  of  the  new 
birth. 

With  that  pitiful  cry  of  his  wife  after  her  lost  child,  disbe- 
lief in  himself  got  within  the  lines  of  his  defense  ;  he  could 
do  no  more,  and  began  to  loathe  that  conscious  self  which  had 
hitherto  been  his  pride. 

Whatever  the  effect  of  illness  may  be  upon  the  temper  of 
some,  it  is  most  certainly  an  ally  of  the  conscience.  All  pains, 
indeed,  and  all  sorrows,  all  demons,  yea,  and  all  sins  themselves 
under  the  suffering  care  of  the  highest  minister,  are  but  the 
ministers  of  truth  and  righteousness.  I  never  came  to  know 
the  condition  of  such  as  seemed  exceptionally  afflicted  but  I 
seemed  to  see  reason  for  their  affliction,  either  in  exceptional 
faultiness  of  character  or  the  greatness  of  the  good  it  was  doing 
them. 

But  conscience  reacts  on  the  body — for  sickness  until  it  is 
obeyed,  for  health  thereafter.  The  moment  conscience  spoke 
thus  plainly  to  Tom,  the  little  that  was  left  of  his  physical  en- 
durance gave  way,  his  illness  got  the  upper  hand,  and  he  took 
to  his  bed — all  he  could  have  for  bed,  that  is — namely,  the  sofa 
in  the  sitting-room,  widened  out  with  chairs,  and  a  mattress 
over  all.  There  he  lay,  and  their  landlady  had  enough  to  do. 
Not  that  either  of  her  patients  was  exacting  ;  they  were  both 
too  ill  and  miserable  for  that.     It  is  the  self-pitiful,  self-cod- 


308  MART  MARS TO K 

dling  invalid  that  is  exacting.     Such,  I  suspect,  require  some- 
thing sharper  still. 

Tom  groaned  and  tossed,  and  cursed  himself,  and  soon 
passed  into  delirium.  Straightway  his  visions,  animate  with 
shame  and  confusion  of  soul,  were  more  distressing  than  even 
his  ready  tongue  could  have  told.  Dead  babies  and  ghastly 
women  pursued  him  everywhere.  His  fever  increased.  The 
cries  of  terror  and  dismay  that  he  uttered  reached  the  ears  of 
his  wife,  and  were  the  first  thing  that  roused  her  from  her 
lethargy.  She  rose  from  her  bed,  and,  just  able  to  crawl,  began 
to  do  what  she  could  for  him.  If  she  could  but  get  near 
enough  to  him,  the  husband  would  yet  be  dearer  than  any 
child.  She  had  him  carried  to  the  bed,  and  thereafter  took  on 
the  sofa  what  rest  there  was  for  her.  To  and  fro  between 
bed  and  sofa  she  crept,  let  the  landlady  say  what  she  might, 
gave  him  all  the  food  he  could  be  got  to  take,  cooled  his  burn- 
ing hands  and  head,  and  cried  over  him  because  she  could  not 
take  him  on  her  lap  like  the  baby  that  was  gone.  Once  or 
twice,  in  a  quieter  interval,  he  looked  at  her  pitifully,  and 
seemed  about  to  speak  ;  but  the  back-surging  fever  carried  far 
away  the  word  of  love  for  which  she  listened  so  eagerly.  The 
doctor  came  daily,  but  Tom  grew  worse,  and  Letty  could  not 
get  well. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

GODFEEY   AND   SEPIA. 

When  the  Redmains  went  to  Cornwall,  Sepia  was  left  at 
Durnmelling,  in  the  expectation  of  joining  them  in  London 
within  a  fortnight  at  latest.  The  illness  of  Mr.  Redmain,  how- 
ever, caused  her  stay  to  be  prolonged,  and  she  was  worn  out  with 
ennui.  The  self  she  was  so  careful  over  was  not  by  any  means 
good  company  :  not  seldom  during  her  life  had  she  found  her- 
self capable  of  almost  anything  to  get  rid  of  it,  short  of  suicide 
or  repentance.  This  autumn,  at  Durnmelling,  she  would  even, 
occasionally,  with  that  object,  when  the  weather  was  fine,  go 


GODFREY  AND  SEPIA.  309 

for  a  solitary  walk — a  thing,  I  need  not  say,  she  hated  in  itself, 
though  now  it  was  her  forlorn  hope,  in  the  poor  possibility  of 
falling  in  with  some  distraction.  But  the  hope  was  not  alto- 
gether a  vague  one  ;  for  was  there  not  a  man  somewhere  under- 
neath those  chimneys  she  saw  over  the  roof  of  the  laundry  ? 
She  had  never  spoken  to  him,  but  Hesper  and  she  had  often 
talked  about  him,  and  often  watched  him  ride — never  man 
more  to  her  mind.  In  her  wanderings  she  had  come  upon  the 
breach  in  the  ha-ha,  and,  clambering  up,  found  herself  on  the 
forbidden  ground  of  a  neighbor  whom  the  family  did  not  visit. 
To  no  such  folly  would  Sepia  be  a  victim. 

The  analysis  of  such  a  nature  as  hers,  with  her  story  to  set 
it  forth,  would  require  a  book  to  itself,  and  I  must  happily  con- 
tent myself  with  but  a  fact  here  and  there  in  her  history. 

In  one  of  her  rambles  on  his  ground  she  had  her  desire, 
and  met  Godfrey  Wardour.  He  lifted  his  hat,  and  she  stopped 
and  addressed  him  by  way  of  apology. 

'"  I  am  afraid  you  think  me  very  rude,  Mr.  Wardour,"  she 
said.  "  I  know  I  am  trespassing,  but  this  field  of  yours  is 
higher  than  the  ground  about  Durnmelling,  and  seems  to  take 
pounds  off  the  weight  of  the  atmosphere." 

For  all  he  had  gone  through,  Godfrey  was  not  yet  less  than 
courteous  to  ladies.  He  assured  Miss  Yolland  that  Thormvick 
was  as  much  at  her  service  as  if  it  were  a  part  of  Durnmelling. 
"  Though,  indeed,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  "  it  would  be 
more  correct  to  say,  '  as  if  Durnmelling  were  a  part  of  Thorn- 
wick' — for  that  was  the  real  state  of  the  case  once  upon  a 
time." 

The  statement  interested  or  seemed  to  interest  Miss  Yol- 
land, giving  rise  to  many  questions  ;  and  a  long  conversation 
ensued.  Suddenly  she  woke,  or  seemed  to  wake,  to  the  con- 
sciousness that  she  had  forgotten  herself  and  the  proprieties 
together  :  hastily,  and  to  all  appearance  with  some  confusion, 
she  wished  him  a  good  morning ;  but  she  was  not  too  much 
confused  to  thank  him  again  for  the  permission  he  had  given 
her  to  walk  on  his  ground. 

It  was  not  by  any  intention  on  the  part  of  Godfrey  that 
they  met  several  times  after  this  ;  but  they  always  had  a  little 


310  MARY  MARSTOK 

conversation  before  they  parted  ;  nor  did  Sepia  find  any  diffi- 
culty in  getting  him  sufficiently  within  their  range  to  make 
him  feel  the  power  of  her  eyes.  She  was  too  prudent,  how- 
ever, to  bring  to  bear  upon  any  man  all  at  once  the  full  play 
of  her  mesmeric  battery  ;  and  things  had  got  no  further  when 
she  went  to  London — a  week  or  two  before  the  return  of  the 
Eedmains,  ostensibly  to  get  things  in  some  special  readiness 
for  Hesper ;  but  that  this  may  have  been  a  pretense  appears 
possible  from  the  fact  that  Mary  came  from  Cornwall  on  the 
same  mission  a  few  days  later. 

I  have  just  mentioned  an  acquaintance  of  Sepia's,  who  at- 
tracted the  notice  and  roused  the  peculiar  interest  of  Mr. 
Eedmain,  because  of  a  look  he  saw  pass  betwixt  them.  This 
man  spoke  both  English  and  French  with  a  foreign  accent, 
and  gave  himself  out  as  a  Georgian — Count  Galofta,  he  called 
himself  :  I  believe  he  was  a  prince  in  Paris.  At  this  time 
he  was  in  London,  and,  during  the  ten  days  that  Sepia  was 
alone,  came  to  see  her  several  times — called  early  in  the  fore- 
noon first,  the  next  day  in  the  evening,  when  they  went  to- 
gether to  the  opera,  and  once  came  and  staid  late.  Whether 
from  her  dark  complexion  making  her  look  older  than  she 
was,  or  from  the  subduing  air  which  her  experience  had  given 
her,  or  merely  from  the  fact  that  she  belonged  to  nobody  much, 
Miss  Yolland  seemed  to  have  carte  blanche  to  do  as  she  pleased, 
and  come  and  go  when  and  where  she  liked,  as  one  knowing 
well  enough  how  to  take  care  of  herself. 

Mary,  arriving  unexpectedly  at  the  house  in  Glammis 
Square,  met  him  in  the  hall  as  she  entered  :  he  had  just  taken 
leave  of  Sepia,  who  was  going  up  the  stair  at  the  moment. 
Mary  had  never  seen  him  before,  but  something  about  him 
caused  her  to  look  at  him  again  as  he  passed. 

Somehow,  Tom  also  had  discovered  Sepia's  return,  and  had 
gone  to  see  her  more  than  once. 

When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eedmain  arrived,  there  was  so  much 
to  be  done  for  Hesper's  wardrobe  that,  for  some  days,  Mary 
found  it  impossible  to  go  and  see  Letty.  Her  mistress  seemed 
harder  to  please  than  usual,  and  more  doubtful  of  humor  than 
ever  before.     This  may  have  arisen — but  I  doubt  it-- from  the 


GODFREY  AND  SEPIA.  311 

fact  that,  having  gone  to  church  the  Sunday  before  they  left, 
she  had  there  heard  a  different  sort  of  sermon  from  any  she 
had  heard  in  her  life  before  :  sermons  haye  something  to  do 
with  the  history  of  the  world,  however  many  of  them  may  he 
no  better  than  a  withered  leaf  in  the  blast. 

The  morning  after  her  arrival,  Hesper,  happening  to  find 
herself  in  want  of  Mary's  immediate  help,  instead  of  calling 
her  as  she  generally  did,  opened  the  door  between  their  rooms, 
and  saw  Mary  on  her  knees  by  her  bedside.  Now,  Hesper  had 
heard  of  saying  prayers — night  and  morning  both — and,  when 
a  child,  had  been  expected,  and  indeed  compelled,  to  say  her 
prayers  ;  but  to  be  found  on  one's  knees  in  the  middle  of  the 
day  looked  to  her  a  thing  exceedingly  odd.  Mary,  in  truth, 
was  not  much  in  the  way  of  kneeling  at  such  a  time  :  she  had 
to  pray  much  too  often  to  kneel  always,  and  God  was  too  near 
her,  wherever  she  happened  to  be,  for  the  fancy  that  she  must 
seek  him  in  any  particular  place  ;  but  so  it  happened  now.  She 
rose,  a  little  startled  rather  than  troubled,  and  followed  her 
mistress  into  her  room. 

"lam  sorry  to  have  disturbed  you,  Mary,"  said  Hesper, 
herself  a  little  annoyed,  it  is  not  quite  easy  to  say  why  ;  "  but 
people  do  not  generally  eay  their  prayers  in  the  middle  of  the 
day." 

"I  say  mine  when  I  need  to  say  them,"  answered  Mary,  a 
little  cross  that  Hesper  should  take  any  notice.  She  would 
rather  the  thing  had  not  occurred,  and  it  was  worse  to  have  to 
talk  about  it. 

"For  my  part,  I  don't  see  any  good  in  being  righteous 
overmuch,"  said  Hesper. 

I  wonder  if  there  was  another  saying  in  the  Bible  she  would 
have  been  so  ready  to  cpiote  ! 

"I  don't  know  what  that  means,"  returned  Mary.  " I  be- 
lieve it  is  somewhere  in  the  Bible,  but  I  am  sure  Jesus  never 
said  it,  for  he  tells  us  to  be  righteous  as  our  Father  in  heaven 
is  righteous." 

f  But  the  thing  is  impossible,"  said  Hesper.  "How  is  one, 
with  such  claims  on  her  as  I  have,  to  attend  to  these  things  ? 
Society  has  claims  :  no  one  denies  that." 


312  MARY  MARSTON. 

"And  has  God  none  ?"  asked  Mary. 

"  Many  people  think  now  there  is  no  God  at  all,"  returned 
Hesper,  with  an  almost  petulant  expression. 

"If  there  is  no  God,  that  settles  the  question,"  answered 
Mary.     "But,  if  there  should  be  one,  how  then  ?" 

"  Then  I  am  sure  he  would  never  be  hard  On  one  like  me. 
I  do  just  like  other  people.  One  must  do  as  people  do.  If 
there  is  one  thing  that  must  be  avoided  more  than  another,  it 
is  peculiarity.  How  ridiculous  it  would  be  of  any  one  to  set 
herself  against  society  !  " 

"  Then  you  think  the  Judge  will  be  satisfied  if  you  say, 
'  Lord,  I  had  so  many  names  in  my  visiting-book,  and  so  many 
invitations  I  could  not  refuse,  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to 
attend  to  those  things '  ?  " 

"I  don't  see  that  I'm  at  all  worse  than  other  people,"  per- 
sisted Hesper.  "  I  can't  go  and  pretend  to  be  sorry  for  sins  I 
should  commit  again  the  next  time  there  was  a  necessity.  I 
don't  see  what  I've  got  to  repent  of." 

Nothing  had  been  said  about  repentance  :  here,  I  imagine, 
the  sermon  may  have  come  in. 

"Then,  of  course,  you  can't  repent,"  said  Mary. 

Hesper  recovered  herself  a  little.  * 

"I  am  glad  you  see  the  thing  as  I  do,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  see  it  at  all  as  you  do,  ma'am,"  answered  Mary, 
gently. 

"Why  !"  exclaimed  Hesper, taken  by  surprise,  "what have 
I  got  to  repent  of  ?" 

"  Do  you  really  want  me  to  say  what  I  think  ?  "  asked  Mary. 

"  Of  course,  I  do,"  returned  Hesper,  getting  angry,  and  at 
the  same  time  uneasy :  she  knew  Mary's  freedom  of  speech 
upon  occasion,  but  felt  that  to  draw  back  would  be  to  yield  the 
point.     "  What  have  I  done  to  be  ashamed  of,  pray  ?  " 

Some  ladies  are  ready  to  plume  themselves  upon  not  having 
been  guilty  of  certain  great  crimes.  Some  thieves,  I  dare  say, 
console  themselves  that  they  have  never  committed  murder. 

"If  I  had  married  a  man  I  did  not  love,"  answered  Mary, 
"I  should  be  more  ashamed  of  myself  than  I  can  tell." 

"  That  is  the  way  of  looking  at  such  things  in'  the  class  you 


GODFREY  AND  SEPIA.  313 

belong  to,  I  dare  say,"  rejoined  Hesper ;  "but  with  us  it  is 
quite  different.  There  is  no  necessity  laid  upon  you.  Our 
position  obliges  us." 

"  But  what  if  God  should  not  see  it  as  you  do  ?  " 

"If  that  is  all  you  have  got  to  bring  against  me  ! — "  said 
Hesper,  with  a  forced  laugh. 

"But  that  is  not  all,"  replied  Mary.  "When  you  married, 
you  promised  many  things,  not  one  of  which  you  have  ever 
done." 

"Really,  Mary,  this  is  intolerable  !"  cried  Hesper. 

"I  am  only  doing  what  you  asked  me,  ma'am,"  said  Mary. 
"And  I  have  said  nothing  that  every  one  about  Mr.  Redmain 
does  not  know  as  well  as  I  do." 

Hesper  wished  heartily  she  had  never  challenged  Mary's 
judgment. 

"But,"  she  resumed,  more  quietly,  "how  could  you,  how 
could  any  one,  how  could  God  himself,  hard  as  he  is,  ask  me 
to  fulfill  the  part  of  a  loving  wife  to  a  man  like  Mr.  Eedmain  ? 
— There  is  no  use  mincing  matters  with  you,  Mary." 

"But  you  promised,"  persisted  Mary.  •  "It  belongs,  be- 
sides, to  the  very  idea  of  marriage. " 

"  There  are  a  thousand  promises  made  every  day  which  no- 
body is  expected  to  keep.  It  is  the  custom,  the  way  of  the 
world  !  How  many  of  the  clergy,  now,  believe  the  things  they 
put  their  names  to  ?  " 

"They  must  answer  for  themselves.  We  are  not  clergy- 
men, but  women,  who  ought  never  to  say  a  thing  except  we 
mean  it,  and,  when  we  have  said  it,  to  stick  to  it." 

"  But  just  look  around  you,  and  see  how  many  there  are  in 
precisely  the  same  position  !  Will  you  dare  to  say  they  are  all 
going  to  be  lost  because  they  do  not  behave  like  angels  to  their 
brutes  of  husbands  ?  " 

"  I  say,  they  have  got  to  repent  of  behaving  to  their  hus- 
bands as  their  husbands  behave  to  them." 

"And  what  if  they  don't  ?" 

Mary  paused  a  little. 

"  Do  you  expect  to  go  to  heaven,  ma'am  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  hope  so." 

14 


314  MARY  MARSTOK 

"  Do  you  think  you  will  like  it  ?  " 

"  I  must  say,  I  think  it  will  be  rather  dull." 

"  Then,  to  use  your  own  word,  you  must  be  very  like  lost 
anyway.  There  does  not  seem  to  be  a  right  place  for  you  any- 
where, and  that  is  very  like  being  lost — is  it  not  ?  " 

Hesper  laughed. 

"  I  am  pretty  comfortable  where  I  am,"  she  said. 

"Husband  and  all !"  thought  Mary,  but  she  did  not  say 
that.     "What  she  did  say  was  : 

"But  you  know  you  can't  stay  here.  God  is  not  going  to 
keep  up  this  way  of  things  for  you  ;  can  you  ask  it,  seeing  you 
don't  care  a  straw  what  he  wants  of  you  ?  But  I  have  some- 
times thought,  What  if  hell  be  just  a  place  where  God  gives 
everybody  everything  she  wants,  and  lets  everybody  do  what- 
ever she  likes,  without  once  coming  nigh  to  interfere  !  What 
a  hell  that  would  be  !  For  God's  presence  in  the  very  being, 
and  nothing  else,  is  bliss.  That,  then,  would  be  altogether  the 
opposite  of  heaven,  and  very  much  the  opposite  of  this  world. 
Such  a  hell  would  go  on,  I  suppose,  till  every  one  had  learned 
to  hate  every  one  else  in  the  same  world  with  her." 

This  was  beyond  Hesper,  and  she  paid  no  attention  to 
it. 

"  You  can  never,  in  your  sober  senses,  Mary,"  she  said, 
"  mean  that  God  requires  of  me  to  do  things  for  Mr.  Bedmain 
that  the  servants  can  do  a  great  deal  better  !  That  would  be 
ridiculous — not  to  mention  that  I  oughtn't  and  couldn't  and 
wouldn't  do  them  for  any  man  !  " 

"Many  a  woman,"  said  Mary,  with  a  solemnity  in  her  tone 
which  she  did  not  intend  to  appear  there,  "has  done  many 
more  trying  things  for  persons  of  whom  she  knew  nothing." 

"  I  dare  say  !  But  such  women  go  in  for  being  saints,  and 
that  is  not  my  line.     I  was  not  made  for  that. " 

"  You  were  made  for  that,  and  far  more,"  said  Mary. 

"There  are  such  women,  I  know,"  persisted  Hesper  ;  "but 
I  do  not  know  how  they  find  it  possible." 

"  I  can  tell  you  how  they  find  it  possible.  They  love  every 
human  being  just  because  he  is  human.  Your  husband  might 
be  a  demon  from  the  way  you  behave  to  him." 


THE  HELPER.  315 

"  I  suppose  you  find  it  agreeable  to  wait  upon  him  :  he  is 
civil  to  you,  I  dare  say  ! " 

"Not  very,"  replied  Mary,  with  a  smile  ;  "but  the  person 
who  can  not  bear  with  a  sick  man  or  a  baby  is  not  fit  to  be  a 
woman." 

"  You  may  go  to  your  own  room,"  said  Hesper. 

For  the  first  time,  a  feeling  of  dislike  to  Mary  awoke  in 
the  bosom  of  her  mistress — very  naturally,  all  my  readers  will 
allow.  The  next  few  days  she  scarcely  spoke  to  her,  sending 
directions  for  her  work  through  Sepia,  who  discharged  the 
office  with  dignity. 


CHAPTEE  XL1. 

THE   HELPER. 

At  length  one  morning,  when  she  believed  Mrs.  Eedmain 
would  not  rise  before  noon,  Mary  felt  she  must  go  and  see 
Letty.  She  did  not  find  her  in  the  quarters  where  she  had 
left  her,  but  a  story  higher,  in  a  mean  room,  sitting  with  her 
hands  in  her  lap.  She  did  not  lift  her  eyes  when  Mary  en- 
tered :  where  hope  is  dead,  curiosity  dies.  Not  until  she  had 
come  quite  near  did  she  raise  her  head,  and  then  she  seemed 
to  know  nothing  of  her.  When  she  did  recognize  her,  she 
held  out  her  hand  in  a  mechanical  way,  as  if  they  were  two 
specters  met  in  a  miserable  dream,  in  which  they  were  nothing 
to  each  other,  and  neither  could  do,  or  cared  to  do,  anything 
for  the  other. 

"My  poor  Letty!"  cried  Mary,  greatly  shocked,  "what 
has  come  to  you  ?  Are  you  not  glad  to  see  me  ?  Has  any- 
thing happened  to  Tom  ?  " 

She  broke  into  a  low,  childish  wail,  and  for  a  time  that  was 
all  Mary  heard.  Presently,  however,  she  became  aware  of  a 
•feeble  moaning  in  the  adjoining  chamber,  the  sound  of  a  human 
sea  in  trouble — mixed  with  a  wandering  babble,  which  to  Letty 
was  but  as  the  voice  of  her  own  despair,  and  to  Mary  was  a 
cry  for  help.     She  abandoned  the  attempt  to  draw  anything 


316  MART  MARSTOJST. 

from  Letty,  and  went  into  the  next  room,  the  door  of  which 
stood  wide.  There  lay  Tom,  but  so  changed  that  Mary  took  a 
moment  to  be  certain  it  was  he.  Going  softly  to  him,  she  laid 
her  hand  on  his  head.  It  was  burning.  He  opened  his  eyes, 
but  she  saw  their  sense  was  gone.  She  went  back  to  Letty, 
and,  sitting  down  beside  her,  put  her  arm  about  her,  and  said  : 

"  Why  didn't  you  send  for  me,  Letty  ?  I  would  have  come 
to  you  at  once.  I  will  come  now,  to-night,  and  help  you  to 
nurse  him.     Where  is  the  baby  ?  " 

Letty  gave  a  shriek,  and,  starting  from  her  chair,  walked 
wildly  about  the  room,  wringing  her  hands.  Mary  went  after 
her,  and  taking  her  in  her  arms,  said  : 

"  Letty,  dear,  has  God  taken  your  baby  ?" 

Letty  gave  her  a  lack-luster  look. 

"Then,"  said  Mary,  "he  is  not  far  away,  for  we  are  all  in 
God's  arms." 

But  what  is  the  use  of  the  most  sovereign  of  medicines 
while  they  stand  on  the  sick  man's  table  ?  What  is  the  migh- 
tiest of  truths  so  long  as  it  is  not  believed  ?  The  spiritually 
sick  still  mocks  at  the  medicine  offered  ;  he  will  not  know  its 
cure.  Mary  saw  that,  for  any  comfort  to  Letty,  God  was  no- 
where. It  went  to  her  very  heart.  Death  and  desolation  and 
the  enemy  were  in  possession.  She  turned  to  go,  that  she 
might  return  able  to  begin  her  contest  with  ruin.  Letty  saw 
that  she  was  going,  and  imagined  her  offended  and  abandon- 
ing her  to  her  misery.  She  flew  to  her,  stretching  out  her  arms 
like  a  child,  but  was  so  feeble  that  she  tripped  and  fell.  Mary 
lifted  her,  and  laid  her  wailing  on  her  couch. 

"Letty,"  said  Mary,  "you  didn't  think  I  was  going  to 
leave  you  !  But  I  must  go  for  an  hour,  perhaps  two,  to  make 
arrangements  for  staying  with  you  till  Tom  is  over  the  worst." 

Then  Letty  clasped  her  hands  in  her  old,  beseeching  way, 
and  looked  up  with  a  faint  show  of  comfort. 

"Be  courageous,  Letty,"  said  Mary.  "I  shall  be  back  as 
soon  as  ever  I  can.     God  has  sent  me  to  you." 

She  drove  straight  home,  and  heard  that  Mrs.  Eedmain  was 
annoyed  that  she  had  gone  out. 

"I  offered  to  dress  her,"  said  Jemima;  "and  she  knows  I 


THE  HELPER.  317 

can  quite  well ;   but  she  would  not  get  up  till  you  came,  and 
made  me  fetch  her  a  book.      So  there  she  is,  a-waiting  for 


you 


t» 


"I  am  sorry,"  said  Mary  ;  "but  I  had  to  go,  and  she  was 
fast  asleep." 

When  she  entered  her  room,  Hesper  gave  her  a  cold  glance 
over  the  top  of  her  novel,  and  went  on  with  her  reading.  Mary 
proceeded  to  get  her  things  ready  for  dressing.  But  by  this 
time  she  had  got  interested  in  the  story. 

"  I  shall  not  get  up  yet,"  she  said. 

"Then,  please,  ma'am,"  replied  Mary,  "would  you  mind 
letting  Jemima  dress  you  ?  I  Want  to  go  out  again,  and  should 
be  glad  if  you  could  do  without  me  for  some  days.  My  friend's 
baby  is  dead,  and  both  she  and  her  husband  are  very  ill." 

Hesper  threw  down  her  book,  and  her  eyes  named. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  using  me  so,  Miss  Marston  ?"  she 
said. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  put  you  to  inconvenience,"  answered 
Mary  ;  "but  the  husband  seems  dying,  and  the  wife  is  scarcely 
able  to  crawl." 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  interrupted  Hesper. 
"  When  you  made  it  necessary  for  me  to  part  with  my  maid, 
you  undertook  to  perform  her  duties.  I  did  not  engage  you 
as  a  sick-nurse  for  other  people." 

"No,  ma'am,"  replied  Mary ;  "but  this  is  an  extreme  case, 
and  I  can  not  believe  you  will  object  to  my  going." 

"  I  do  object.  How,  pray,  is  the  world  to  go  on,  if  this 
kind  of  thing  be  permitted  !  I  may  be  going  out  to  dinner, 
or  to  the  opera  to-night,  for  anything  you  know,  and  who  is 
there  to  dress  me  ?  No  ;  on  principle,  and  for  the  sake  of  ex- 
ample, I  will  not  let  you  go." 

"  I  thought,"  said  Mary,  not  a  little  disappointed  in  Hes- 
per, "  I  did  not  stand  to  you  quite  in  the  relation  of  an  ordi- 
nary servant." 

"  Certainly  you  do  not  :  I  look  for  a  little  more  devotion 
from  you  than  from  a  common,  ungrateful  creature  who  thinks 
only  of  herself.     But  you  are  all  alike." 

More  and  more  distressed   to  find  one  she   had  loved  so 


318  MARY  MARSTON. 


long  show  herself  so  selfish,  Mary's  indignation  had  almost  go 
the  better  of  her.     But  a  little  heightening  of  her  color  was 
all  the  show  it  made. 

"Indeed,  it  is  quite  necessary,  ma'am,"  she  persisted,  "that 
I  should  go." 

"  The  law  has  fortunately  made  provision  against  such  be- 
havior," said  Hesper.  "You  can  not  leave  without  giving  me 
a  month's  notice." 

"  The  understanding  on  which  I  came  to  you  was  very  dif- 
ferent," said  Mary,  sadly. 

"  It  was ;  but,  since  then,  you  consented  to  become  my 
maid." 

"It  is  ungenerous  to  take  advantage  of  that,"  returned 
Mary,  growing  angry  again. 

"I  have  to  protect  myself  and  the  world  in  general  from 
the  consequences  that  must  follow  were  such  lawless  behavior 
allowed  to  pass." 

Hesper  spoke  with  calm  severity,  and  Mary,  making  up  her 
mind,  answered  now  with  almost  equal  calmness. 

"The  law  was  made  for  both  sides,  ma'am;  and,  as  you 
bring  the  law  to  me,  I  will  take  refuge  in  the  law.  It  is,  I  be- 
lieve, a  month's  warning  or  a  month's  wages  ;  and,  as  I  have 
never  had  any  wages,  I  imagine  I  am  at  liberty  to  go.  Good- 
by,  ma'am." 

Hesper  made  her  no  answer,  and  Mary,  left  the  room.  She 
went  to  her  own,  stuffed  her  immediate  necessities  into  a  bag, 
let  herself  out  of  the  house,  called  a  cab,  and,  with  a  great 
lump  in  her  throat,  drove  to  the  help  of  Letty. 

First  she  had  a  talk  with  the  landlady,  and  learned  all  she 
could  tell.  Then  she  went  up,  and  began  to  make  things  as 
comfortable  as  she  could  :  all  was  in  sad  disorder  and  neglect. 

With  the  mere  inauguration  of  cleanliness,  and  the  first 
dawn  of  coming  order,  the  courage  of  Letty  began  to  revive  a 
little.  The  impossibility  of  doing  all  that  ought  to  be  done, 
had,  in  her  miserable  weakness,  so  depressed  her  that  she  had 
not  done  even  as  much  as  she  could — except  where  Tom  was 
immediately  concerned  :  there  she  had  not  failed  of  her  utmost. 

Mary  next  went  to  the  doctor  to  get  instructions,  and  then 


ot 


THE  HELPER.  319 

to  buy  what  things  were  most  wanted.  And  now  she  almost 
wished  Mrs.  Redmain  had  paid  her  for  her  services,  for  she 
must  write  to  Mr.  Turnbull  for  money,  and  that  she  disliked. 
But  by  the  very  next  post  she  received,  inclosed  in  a  business 
memorandum  in  George's  writing,  the  check  for  fifty  pounds 
she  had  requested. 

She  did  not  dare  write  to  Tom's  mother,  because  she  was 
certain,  were  she  to  come  up,  her  presence  would  only  add  to 
the  misery,  and  take  away  half  the  probability  of  his  recovery 
and  of  Letty's,  too.  In  the  case  of  both,  nourishment  was  the 
main  thing  ;  and  to  the  fit  providing  and  the  administering  of 
it  she  bent  her  energy. 

For  a  day  or  two,  she  felt  at  times  as  if  she  could  hardly 
get  through  what  she  had  undertaken  ;  but  she  soon  learned  to 
drop  asleep  at  any  moment,  and  wake  immediately  when  she 
was  wanted  ;  and  thereafter  her  strength  was  by  no  means  so 
sorely  tried. 

Under  her  skillful  nursing — skillful,  not  from  experience, 
but  simply  from  her  faith,  whence  came  both  conscience  of  and 
capacity  for  doing  what  the  doctor  told  her — things  went  well. 
It  is  from  their  want  of  this  faith,  and  their  consequent  arro- 
gance and  conceit,  that  the  ladies  who  aspire  to  help  in  hos- 
pitals give  the  doctors  so  much  trouble  :  they  have  not  yet 
learned  obedience,  the  only  path  to  any  good,  the  one  essential 
to  the  saving  of  the  world.  One  who  can  not  obey  is  the 
merest  slave — essentially  and  in  himself  a  slave.  The  crisis  of 
Tom's  fever  was  at  length  favorably  passed,  but  the  result  re- 
mained doubtful.  By  late  hours  and  strong  drink,  he  had  done 
not  a  little  to  weaken  a  constitution,  in  itself,  as  I  have  said, 
far  from  strong  ;  while  the  unrest  of  what  is  commonly  and 
foolishly  called  a  bad  conscience,  with  misery  over  the  death  of 
his  child  and  the  conduct  which  had  disgraced  him  in  his  own 
eyes  and  ruined  his  wife's  happiness,  combined  to  retard  his 
recovery. 

While  he  was  yet  delirious,  and  grief  and  shame  and  con- 
sternation operated  at  will  on  his  poetic  nature,  the  things  he 
kept  saying  over  and  over  were  very  pitiful ;  but  they  would 
have  sounded  more  miserable  by  much  in  the  ears  of  one  who 


320  MART  MAR8T0N. 

did  not  look  so  far  ahead  as  Mary.  She,  trained  to  regard  all 
things  in  their  true  import,  was  rejoiced  to  find  him  loathing 
his  former  self,  and  beyond  the  present  suffering  saw  the  glad- 
ness at  hand  for  the  sorrowful  man,  the  repenting  sinner.  Had 
she  been  mother  or  sister  to  him,  she  could  hardly  hare  waited 
on  him  with  more  devotion  or  tenderness. 

One  day,  as  his  wife  was  doing  some  little  thing  for  him,  he 
took  her  hand  in  his  feeble  grasp,  and  pressing  it  to  his  face, 
wet  with  the  tears  of  reviving  manhood,  said  : 

"We  might  have  been  happy  together,  Letty,  if  I  had  but 
known  how  much  you  were  worth,  and  how  little  I  was  worth 
myself  ! — Oh  me  !   oh  me  ! " 

He  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  wail  that  tortured  Letty 
with  its  likeness  to  the  crying  of  her  baby. 

"Tom!  my  own  darling  Tom!"  she  cried,  "when  you 
speak  as  if  I  belonged  to  you,  it  makes  me  as  happy  as  a  queen. 
When  you  are  better,  you  will  be  happy,  too,  dear.  Mary  says 
you  will." 

"  0  Letty  ! "  he  sobbed—"  the  baby ! " 

"  The  baby's  all  right,  Mary  says  ;  and,  some  day,  she  says, 
he  will  run  into  your  arms,  and  know  you  for  his  father." 

"And  I  shall  be  ashamed  to  look  at  him  !  "  said  Tom. 

An  hour  or  so  after,  he  woke  from  a  short  sleep,  and  his 
eyes  sought  Letty's  watching  face. 

"I  have  seen  baby,"  he  said,  "  and  he  has  forgiven  me.  I 
dare  say  it  was  only  a  dream,"  he  added,  "but  somehow  it 
makes  me  happier.    At  least,  I  know  how  the  thing  might  be." 

"It  was  true,  whether  it  was  but  a  dream  or  something 
more,"  said  Mary,  who  happened  to  be  by. 

"Thank  you,  Mary,"  he  returned.  "You  and  Letty  have 
saved  me  from  what  I  dare  not  think  of  !  I  could  die  happy 
now — if  it  weren't  for  one  thing." 

'  '  What  is  that  ?  "  asked  Mary. 

"I  am  ashamed  to  say,"  he  replied,  "but  I  ought  to  say  it 
and  bear  the  shame,  for  the  man  who  does  shamefully  ought 
to  be  ashamed.  It  is  that,  when  I  am  in  my  grave — or  some- 
where else,  for  I  know  Mary  does  not  like  people  to.  talk  about 
being  in  their  graves — you  say  it  is  heathenish,  don't  you, 


TEE  EELPER.  321 

Mary  ? — when  I  am  where  they  can't  find  me,  then,  it  is  horrid 
to  think  that  people  up  here  will  have  a  hold  on  me  and  a  right 
oyer  me  still,  because  of  debts  I  shall  never  be  able  to  pay 
them." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,  Tom,"  said  Mary,  cheerfully. 
"I  think  you  will  pay  them  yet. — But  I  have  heard  it 
said,"  she  went  on,  "that  a  man  in  debt  never  tells  the 
truth  about  his  debts — as  if  he  had  only  the  face  to  make 
them,  not  to  talk  about  them  :  can  you  make  a  clean  breast 
of  it,  Tom?" 

"  I  don't  exactly  know  what  they  are ;  but  I  always  did 
mean  to  pay  them,  and  I  have  some  idea  about  them.  I  don't 
think  they  would  come  to  more  than  a  hundred  pounds. " 

"Your  mother  would  not  hesitate  to  pay  that  for  you?" 
said  Mary. 

"  I  know  she  wouldn't ;  but,  then,  I'm  thinking  of  Letty." 

He  paused,  and  Mary  waited. 

"You  know,  when  I  am  gone,"  he  resumed,  "  there  will  be 
nothing  for  her  but  to  go  to  my  mother  ;  and  it  breaks  my 
heart  to  think  of  it.  Every  sin  of  mine  she  will  lay  to  her 
charge  ;  and  how  am  I  to  lie  still  in  my  grave — oh,  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Mary." 

"I  will  pay  your  debts,  Tom,  and  gladly,"  said  Mary,  "if 
they  don't  come  to  much  more  than  you  say — than  you  think, 
I  mean." 

"But,  don't  you  see,  Mary,  that  would  be  only  a  shifting 
of  my  debt  from  them  to  you  ?  Except  for  Letty,  it  would  not 
make  the  thing  any  better." 

"  What !"  said  Mary,  "is  there  no  difference  between  owing 
a  thing  to  one  who  loves  you  and  one  who  does  not  ?  to  one 
who  would  always  be  wishing  you  had  paid  him  and  one  who 
is  glad  to  have  even  the  poor  bond  of  a  debt  between  you  and 
her  ?  All  of  us  who  are  sorry  for  our  sins  are  brothers  and 
sisters." 

"0  Mary! "said  Tom. 

"But  I  will  tell  you  what  will  be  better  :  let  your  mother 
pay  your  debts,  and  I  will  look  after  Letty.  I  will  care  for 
her  like  my  own  sister,  Tom." 


322  MART  MARSTOK. 

"  Tlien  I  shall  die  happy,"  said  Tom  ;  and  from  that  day  be- 
gan to  recover. 

Many  who  would  pay  money  to  keep  a  man  alive  or  to 
deliver  him  from  pain  would  pay  nothing  to  take  a  killing 
load  off  the  shoulders  of  his  mind.  Hunger  they  can  pity — 
not  mental  misery. 

Tom  would  not  hear  of  his  mother  being  written  to. 

"  I  have  done  Letty  wrong  enough  already,"  he  said,  "  with- 
out subjecting  her  to  the  cruel  tongue  of  my  mother.  I  have 
conscience  enough  left  not  to  have  anybody  else  abuse  her." 

"  But,  Tom,"  expostulated  Mary,  "if  you  want  to  be  good, 
one  of  your  first  duties  is  to  be  reconciled  to  your  mother." 

"I  am  very  sorry  things  are  all  wrong  between  us,  Mary," 
said  Tom.  "But,  if  you  want  her  to  come  here,  you  don't 
know  what  you  are  talking  about.  She  must  have  everything 
her  own  way,  or  storm  from  morning  to  night.  I  would  gladly 
make  it  up  with  her,  but  live  with  her,  or  die  with  her,  I  could 
not.  To  make  either  possible,  you  must  convert  her,  too. 
"When  you  have  done  that,  I  will  invite  her  at  once." 

"Never  mind  me,  Tom,"  said  Letty.  "So  long  as  you 
love  me,  I  don't  care  what  even  your  mother  thinks  of  me.  I 
will  do  everything  I  can  to  make  her  comfortable,  and  satisfied 
with  me." 

"  Wait  till  I  am  better,  anyhow,  Letty  ;  for  I  solemnly  assure 
you  I  haven't  a  chance  if  my  mother  comes.  I  will  tell  you 
what,  Mary  :  I  promise  you,  if  I  get  better,  I  will  do  what  is 
possible  to  be  a  son  to  my  mother  ;  and  for  the  present  I  will 
dictate  a  letter,  if  you  will  write  it,  bidding  her  good-by,  and 
asking  her  pardon  for  everything  I  have  done  wrong  by  her, 
which  you  will  please  send  if  I  should  die.  I  can  not  and  I 
will  not  promise  more. " 

He  was  excited  and  exhausted,  and  Mary  dared  not  say 
another  word.  Nor  truly  did  she  at  the  moment  see  what 
more  could  be  said.  Where  all  relation  has  been  perverted, 
things  can  not  be  set  right  by  force.  Perhaps  all  we  can.  do 
sometimes  is  to  be  willing  and  wait. 

The  letter  was  dictated  and  written — a  lovely  one,  Mary 
though!; — and  it  made  her  weep  as  she  wrote  it.     Tom  signed 


THE  LEPER.  323 

it  with  his  own  hand.  Mary  folded,  sealed,  addressed  it,  and 
laid  it  away  in  her  desk. 

The  same  evening  Tom  said  to  Letty,  putting  his  thin, 
long  hand  in  hers — 

"Mary  thinks  we  shall  know  each  other  there,  Letty." 

" Tom  ! "  interrupted  Letty,  "don't  talk  like  that ;  I  can't 
bear  it.     If  you  do,  I  shall  die  before  you." 

"All  I  wanted  to  say,"  persisted  Tom,  "was,  that  I  should 
sit  all  day  looking  out  for  you,  Letty." 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE   LEPER. 

The  faint^  sweet,  luminous  jar  of  bow  and  string,  as  be- 
twixt them  they  tore  the  silky  air  into  a  dying  sound,  came 
hovering — neither  could  have  said  whether  it  was  in  the  soul 
only,  or  there  and  in  the  outer  Avorld  too. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"Mary  !"  Letty  called  into  the  other  room,  "there  is  our 
friend  with  the  violin  again  !  Don't  you  think  Tom  would 
like  to  hear  him  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  do,"  answered  Mary. 

"  Then  would  you  mind  asking  him  to  come  and  play  a  lit- 
tle to  us  ?    It  would  do  Tom  good,  I  do  think." 

Mary  went  up  the  one  stair— all  that  now  divided  them, 
and  found  the  musician  with  his  sister— his  half-sister  she  was. 

"I  thought  we  should  have  you  in  upon  us  !"  said  Ann. 
"Joe  thinks  he  can  play  so  as  nobody  can  hear  him  ;  and  I 
was  fool  enough  to  let  him  try.     I  am  sorry." 

"lam  glad,"  rejoined  Mary,  "and  am  come  to  ask  him 
down  stairs  ;  for  Mrs.  Helmer  and  I  think  it  will  do  her  hus- 
band good  to  hear  him.     He  is  very  fond  of  music." 

"Much  help  music  will  be  to  him,  poor  young  man  !  "  said 
Ann,  scornfully. 

"  Wouldn't  you  give  a  sick  man  a  flower,  even  if  it  only 


324  MARY  MARSTOK 

made  him  a  little  happier  for  a  moment  Avith  its  scent  and  its 
loveliness  ?  "  asked  Mary. 

"No,  I  wouldn't.  It  would  only  be  to  help  the  deceitful 
heart  to  be  more  desperately  wicked." 

I  will  not  continue  the  conversation,  although  they  did  a  lit- 
tle longer.  Ann's  father  had  been  a  preacher  among  the  fol- 
lowers of  Whitefield,  and  Ann  was  a  follower  of  her  father. 
She  laid  hold  upon  the  garment  of  a  hard  master,  a  tyrannical 
God.  Happy  he  who  has  learned  the  gospel  according  to  Jesus, 
as  reported  by  John — that  God  is  light,  and  in  him  is  no  dark- 
ness at  all !  Happy  he  who  finds  God  his  refuge  from  all  the 
lies  that  are  told  for  him,  and  in  his  name  !  But  it  is  love 
that  saves,  and  not  opinion  that  damns ;  and  let  the  Master 
himself  deal  with  the  weeds  in  his  garden  as  with  the  tares  in 
his  field. 

"  I  read  my  Bible  a  good  deal,"  said  Mary,  at  last,  "but  I 
never  found  one  of  those  things  you  say  in  it." 

"That's  because  you  were  never  taught  to  look  for  them," 
said  Ann. 

"Very  likely,"  returned  Mary.  "  In  the  mean  time  I  prefer 
the  violin — that  is,  Avith  one  like  your  brother  to  play  it." 

She  turned  to  the  door,  and  Joseph  Jasper,  who  had  not 
spoken  a  word,  rose  and  followed  her.  As  soon  as  they  were 
outside,  Mary  turned  to  him,  and  begged  he  would  play  the 
same  piece  with  which  he  had  ended  on  the  former  occa- 
sion. 

"  I  thought  you  did  not  care  for  it !  I  am  so  glad  !  "  he 
said. 

"I  care  for  it  very  much,"  replied  Mary,  "and  have  often 
thought  of  it  since.  But  you  left  in  such  haste  !  before  I 
could  find  Avords  to  thank  you  ! "  • 

"You  mean  the  ten  lepers,  don't  you?  "he  said.  "But 
of  course  you  do.     I  always  end  off  with  them." 

"Is  that  how  you  call  it?"  returned  Mary.  "Then  you 
have  given  me  the  key  to  it,  and  I  shall  understand  it  much 
better  this  time,  I  hope." 

"That  is  what  I  call  it,"  said  Joseph,  " — to  myself,  I 
mean,  not  to  Ann.     She  would  count  it  blasphemy.'    God  has 


THE  LEPER.  325 

made  so  many  things  that  she  thinks  must  not  be  mentioned 
in  his  hearing !" 

When  they  entered  the  room,  Joseph,  casting  a  quick  look 
round  it,  made  at  once  for  the  darkest  corner.  Three  swift 
strides  took  him  there  ;  and,  without  more  preamble  than  if  he 
had  come  upon  a  public  platform  to  play,  he  closed  his  eyes 
and  began. 

And  now  at  last  Mary  understood  at  least  this  specimen  of 
his  strange  music,  and  was  able  to  fill  up  the  blanks  in  the 
impression  it  formerly  made  upon  her.  Alas,  that  my  help- 
less ignorance  should  continue  to  make  it  impossible  for  me  to 
describe  it  ! 

A  movement  eyen  and  rather  slow,  full  of  unexpected 
chords,  wonderful  to  Mary,  who  did  not  know  that  such  things 
could  be  made  on  the  violin,  brought  before  her  mind's  eye 
the  man  who  knew  all  about  everything,  and  loved  a  child 
more  than  a  sage,  walking  in  the  hot  day  upon  the  border  be- 
tween Galilee  and  Samaria.  Sounds  arose  which  she  inter- 
preted as  the  stir  of  village  life,  the  crying  and  calling  of  do- 
mestic animals,  and  of  busy  housewives  at  their  duties,  carried 
on  half  out  of  doors,  in  the  homeliness  of  country  custom. 
Presently  the  instrument  began  to  tell  the  gathering  of  a 
crowd,  with  bee-like  hum,  and  the  crossing  of  voice  with 
voice — but,  at  a  distance,  the  sounds  confused  and  obscure. 
Swiftly  then  they  seemed  to  rush  together,  to  blend  and  lose 
themselves  in  the  unity  of  an  imploring  melody,  in  which  she 
heard  the  words,  uttered  afar,  with  uplifted  hands  and  voices, 
drawing  nearer  and  nearer  as  often  repeated,  "Jesus,  Master, 
have  mercy  on  us."  Then  came  a  brief  pause,  and  then  what, 
to  her  now  fully  roused  imagination,  seemed  the  voice  of  the 
Master,  saying,  "  Go  show  yourselves  unto  the  priests."  Then 
followed  the  slow,  half-unwilling,  not  hopeful  march  of  time- 
less feet ;  then  a  clang  as  of  something  broken,  then  a  silence 
as  of  sunrise,  then  air  and  liberty — long-drawn  notes  divided 
with  quick,  hurried  ones  ;  then  the  trampling  of  many  feet, 
going  farther  and  farther — merrily,  with  dance  and  song  ;  once 
more  a  sudden  pause — and  a  melody  in  which  she  read  the 
awe-struck  joyous  return  of  one.     Steadily  yet  eagerly  the  feet 


326  MARY  MARSTON. 

drew  nigh,  the  melody  growing  at  once  in  awe  and  jubilation, 
as  the  man  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  him  whose  word  had 
made  him  clean,  until  at  last  she  saw  him  fall  on  his  face  be- 
fore him,  and  heard  his  soul  rushing  forth  in  a  strain  of  ador- 
ing thanks,  which  seemed  to  end  only  because  it  was  choked 
in  tears. 

The  violin  ceased,  but,  as  if  its  soul  had  passed  from  the 
instrument  into  his,  the  musician  himself  took  up  the  strain, 
and  in  a  mellow  tenor  voice,  with  a  mingling  of  air  and  recita- 
tive, and  an  expression  which  to  Mary  was  entrancing,  sang 
the  words,  "And  he  was  a  Samaritan." 

At  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  he  seemed  to  wake  up,  hung 
his  head  for  a  moment,  as  if  ashamed  of  having  shown  his 
emotion,  tucked  his  instrument  under  his  arm,  and  walked 
from  the  room,  without  a  word  spoken  on  either  side.  Nor, 
while  he  played,  had  Mary  once  seen  the  face  of  the  man  ;  her 
soul  sat  only  in  the  porch  of  her  ears,  and  not  once  looked 
from  the  windows  of  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

MART  AKD  ME.    EEDMAIN". 

A  few  rudiments  of  righteousness  lurked,  in  their  original 
undevelopment,  but  still  in  a  measure  active,  in  the  being  of 
Mr.  Eedmain  :  there  had  been  in  the  soul  of  his  mother,  I  sus- 
pect, a  strain  of  generosity,  and  she  had  left  a  mark  of  it  upon 
him,  and  it  was  the  best  thing  about  him.  But  in  action  these 
rudiments  took  an  evil  shape. 

Preferring  inferior  company,  and  full  of  that  suspicion 
which  puts  the  last  edge  upon  what  the  world  calls  knowledge 
of  human  nature,  he  thought  no  man  his  equal  in  penetrating 
the  arena  of  motive,  and  reading  actions  in  the  light  of  motive  ; 
and,  that  the  fundamental  principle  of  all  motive  was  self- 
interest,  he  assumed  to  be  beyond  dispute.  With  this  candle, 
not  that  of  the  Lord,  he  searched  the  dark  places  of  the  soul ; 


MARY  AND  MR.  REDMAIN.  327 

but,  where  the  soul  was  light,  his  candle  could  show  him  no- 
thing— served  only  to  blind  him  yet  further,  if  possible,  to  what 
was  there  present.  And,  because  he  did  not  seek  the  good, 
never  yet  in  all  his  life  had  he  come  near  enough  to  a  righteous 
man  to  recognize  that  in  something  or  other  that  man  was  dif- 
ferent from  himself.  As  for  women — there  was  his  wife — of 
whom  he  was  willing  to  think  as  well  as  she  would  let  him  ! 
And  she,  firmly  did  he  believe,  was  an  angel  beside  Sepia  ! — of 
whom,  bad  as  she  was,  it  is  quite  possible  he  thought  yet  worse 
than  she  deserved  :  alas  for  the  woman  who  is  not  good,  and 
falls  under  the  judgment  of  a  bad  man  ! — the  good  woman  he 
can  no  more  hurt  than  the  serpent  can  bite  the  adamant.  He 
believed  he  knew  Sepia's  self,  although  he  did  not  yet  know 
her  history ;  and  he  scorned  her  the  more  that  he  was  not  a 
hair  better  himself.  He  had  regard  enough  for  his  wife,  and 
what  virtue  his  penetration  conceded  her,  to  hate  their  inti- 
macy ;  and  ever  since  his  marriage  had  been  scheming  how  to 
get  rid  of  Sepia — only,  however,  through  finding  her  out  :  he 
must  unmask  her  :  there  would  be  no  satisfaction  in  getting 
rid  of  her  without  his  wife's  convinced  acquiescence.  He  had 
been,  therefore,  almost  all  the  time  more  or  less  on  the  watch  to 
uncover  the  wickedness  he  felt  sure  lay  at  no  great  depth  be- 
neath her  surface  ;  and  in  the  mean  time,  and  for  the  sake  of 
this  end,  he  lived  on  terms  of  decent  domiciliation  with  her. 
She  had  no  suspicion  how  thin  was  the  crust  between  her  and 
the  lava. 

In  Cornwall,  he  began  at  length  to  puzzle  himself  about 
Mary.  Of  course  she  was  just  like  the  rest !  but  he  did  not  at 
once  succeed  in  fitting  what  he  saw  to  what  he  entirely  believed 
of  her.  She  remained,  like  Sepia,  a  riddle  to  be  solved.  He 
was  not  so  ignorant  as  his  wife  concerning  the  relations  of  the 
different  classes,  and  he  felt  certain  there  must  be  some  reason,, 
of  course  a  discreditable  one,  for  her  leaving  her  former,  and 
taking  her  present,  position.  The  attack  he  had  in  Cornwall 
afforded  him  unexpected  opportunity  of  making  her  out,  as  he 
called  it. 

"Upon  this  occasion  it  was  also  that  Mary  first  ventured  to 
expostulate  with  her  mistress  on  her  neglect  of  her  husband. 


328  MART  MARSTOK 

She  heard  her  patiently  ;  and  the  same  day,  going  to  his  room, 
paid  him  some  small  attention — handed  him  his  medicine,  I 
believe,  but  clumsily,  because  ungraciously.  The  next  moment, 
one  of  his  fits  of  pain  coming  on,  he  broke  into  such  a  torrent 
of  cursing  as  swept  her  in  stately  dignity  from  the  room.  She 
would  not  go  near  him  again. 

"Brought  up  as  you  have  been,  Mary,"  she  said,  "you  can 
not  enter  into  the  feelings  of  one  in  my  position,  to  whom  the 
very  tone  even  of  coarse  language  is  unspeakably  odious.  It 
makes  me  sick  with  disgust.  Coarseness  is  what  no  lady  can 
endure.  I  beg  you  will  not  mention  Mr.  Eedmain  to  me 
again." 

"Dear  Mrs.  Eedmain,"  said  Mary,  "ugly  as  such  language 
is,  there  are  many  things  worse.  It  seems  to  me  worse  that  a 
wife  should  not  go  near  her  husband  when  he  is  suffering  than 
that  he  should  in  his  pain  speak  bad  words." 

She  had  been  on  the  point  of  saying  that  a  thin  skin  was 
not  purity,  but  bethought  herself  in  time. 

"  You  are  scarcely  in  a  position  to  lay  down  the  law  for 
me,  Mary,"  said  Hesper.  "  We  will,  if  you  please,  drop  the 
subject." 

Mary's  words  were  overheard,  as  was  a  good  deal  in  the 
house  more  than  was  reckoned  on,  and  reached  Mr.  Eedmain, 
whom  they  perplexed  :  what  could  the  young  woman  hope 
from  taking  his  part  ? 

One  morning,  after  the  arrival  of  Mewks,  his  man,  Mary 
heard  Mr.  Eedmain  calling  him  in  a  tone  which  betrayed  that 
he  had  been  calling  for  some  time  :  the  house  was  an  old  one, 
and  the  bells  were  neither  in  good  trim,  nor  was  his  in  a  con- 
venient position.  She  thought  first  to  find  Mewks,  but  pity 
rose  in  her  heart.  She  ran  to  Mr.  Eedmain's  door,  which  stood 
half  open,  and  showed  herself. 

"  Can  /not  do  something  for  you,  sir  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  you  can.  Go  and  tell  that  lumbering  idiot  to  come 
to  me  instantly.  No  !  here,  you  ! — there's  a  good  girl  ! — Oh, 
damn  ! — Just  give  me  your  hand,  and  help  me  to  turn  an 
inch  or  two." 

Change  of  posture  relieved  him  a  little. 


MARY  AND  MR.  REDMAIN.  329 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said.  "  That  is  better.  Wait  a  few  mo- 
ments, will  you — till  the  rascal  comes  ?  " 

Mary  stood  back,  a  little  behind  him,  thinking  not  to  an- 
noy him  with  the  sight  of  her. 

""What  are  you  doing  there?"  he  cried.  "I  like  to  see 
what  people  are  about  in  my  room.  Come  in  front  here,  and 
let  me  look  at  you." 

Mary  obeyed,  and  with  a  smile  took  the  position  he  pointed 
out  to  her.  Immediately  followed  another  agony  of  pain,  in 
which  he  looked  beset  with  demons,  whom  he  not  feared  but 
hated.  Mary  hurried  to  him,  and,  in  the  compassion  which 
she  inherited  long  back  of  Eye,  took  his  hand,  the  fingers  of 
which  were  twisting  themselves  into  shapes  like  tree-roots. 
With  a  hoarse  roar,  he  dashed  hers  from  him,  as  if  it  had  been 
a  serpent.     She  returned  to  her  place,  and  stood. 

"  What  did  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  he  said,  when  he  came  to 
himself.     "  Do  you  want  to  make  a  fool  of  me  ?  " 

Mary  did  not  understand  him,  and  made  no  reply.  Another 
fit  came.     This  time  she  kept  her  distance. 

"  Come  here,"  he  howled  ;  "take  my  head  in  your  hands." 

She  obeyed. 

"Damned  nice  hands  you've  got!"  he  gasped;  "much 
nicer  than  vour  mistress's." 

Mary  took  no  notice.  Gently  she  withdrew  her  hands,  for 
the  fit  was  over. 

"I  see  !  that's  the  way  of  you !"  he  said,  as  she  stepped 
back.  "  But  come  now,  tell  me  how  it  is  that  a  nice,  well- 
behaved,  handsome  girl  like  you,  should  leave  a  position  where, 
they  tell  me,  you  were  your  own  mistress,  and  take  a  cursed 
place  as  lady's  maid  to  my  wife." 

"  It  was  because  I  liked  Mrs.  Eedmain  so  much,"  answered 
Mary.  "  But,  indeed,  I  was  not  very  comfortable  where  I 
was. " 

"What  the  devil  did  you  see  to  like  in  her  ?  I  never  saw 
anything  ! " 

"  She  is  so  beautiful ! "  said  Mary. 

"Is  she  !  ho  !  ho  !"  he  laughed.  "What  is  that  to  an- 
other woman  !   You  are  new  to  the  trade,  my  girl,  if  you  think 


330  MARY  MARSTOK 

that  will  go  down  !  One  woman  taking  to  another  because 
'  she's  so  beautiful '  !    Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  " 

He  repeated  Mary's  words  with  an  indescribable  contempt, 
and  his  laugh  was  insulting  to  a  degree  ;  but  it  went  off  in  a 
cry  of  suffering. 

"  Hypocrisy  mustn't  be  too  barefaced,"  he  resumed,  when 
again  his  torture  abated.  "I  didn't  make  you  stop  to  amuse 
me  !  It's  little  of  that  this  beastly  world  has  got  for  me  ! 
Come,  a  better  reason  for  waiting  on  my  wife  ?  " 

"  That  she  was  kind  to  me,"  said  Mary,  "may  be  a  better 
reason,  but  it  is  not  a  truer." 

"  It's  more  than  ever  she  was  to  me  !  What  wages  does  she 
give  you  ?  " 

"  We  have  not  spoken  about  that  yet,  sir." 

"You  haven't  had  any  ?" 

"I  haven't  wanted  any  yet." 

"Then  what  the  deuce  ever  made  you  come  to  this  house  ? " 

"I  hoped  to  be  of  some  service  to  Mrs.  Kedmain,"  said 
Mary,  growing  troubled. 

"And  you  ain't  of  any?  Is  that  why  you  don't  want 
wages  ?  " 

"No,  sir.     That  is  not  the  reason." 

"  Then  what  is  the  reason  ?  Come  !  Trust  me.  I  will  be 
much  better  to  you  than  your  mistress.  Out  with  it !  I  knew 
there  was  something  ! " 

"  I  would  rather  not  talk  more  about  it,"  said  Mary,  know- 
ing that  her  feeling  in  relation  to  Hesper  would  be  altogether 
incredible,  and  the  notion  of  it  ridiculous  to  him. 

"You  needn't  mind  telling  me!  I  know  all  about  such 
things. — Look  here !  Give  me  that  pocket-book  on  the 
table." 

Mary  brought  him  the  pocket-book.  He  opened  it,  and, 
taking  from  it  some  notes,  held  them  out  to  her. 

"  If  your  mistress  won't  pay  you  your  wages,  I  will.  There  ! 
take  that.  You're  quite  welcome.  What  matter  which,  pays 
you  ?    It  all  comes  out  of  the  same  stocking-foot." 

"I  don't  know  yet,"  answered  Mary,  "whether  I  shall  ac- 
cept wages  from  Mrs.  Eedmain.     Something  might  happen  to 


MARY  AND  MR.   REDMAIN.  331 

make  it  impossible  ;  or,  if  I  had  taken  money,  to  make  me  re- 
gret it." 

"I  like  that !  There  you  keep  a  hold  on  her  ! "  said  Mr. 
Eedmain,  in  a  confidential  tone,  while  in  his  heart  he  was  more 
puzzled  than  ever.  "There's  no  occasion,  though,  for  all 
that,"  he  went  on,  "to  go  without  your  money  when  you  can 
have  it  and  she  be  nothing  the  wiser.  There — take  it.  I  will 
swear  you  any  oath  you  like  not  to  tell  my  stingy  wife." 

"She  is  not  stingy,"  said  Mary;  "and,  if  I  don't  take 
wages  from  her,  I  certainly  shall  not  from  any  one  else. — Be- 
sides," she  added,  "it  would  be  dishonest." 

"Oh!  that's  the  dodge! "said  Mr.  Kedmain  to  himself; 
but  aloud,  "Where  would  be  the  dishonesty,  when  the  money 
is  mine  to  do  with  as  I  please  ?  " 

"  Where  the  dishonesty,  sir  ! "  exclaimed  Mary,  astounded. 
"To  take  wages  from  you,  and  pretend  to  Mrs.  EedmainT  was 
going  without  ! " 

"Ha!  ha!  The  first  time,  no  doubt,  you  ever  pretended 
anything  ! " 

"It  would  be,"  said  Mary,  "so  far  as  I  can,  at  the  moment, 
remember. " 

"  Go  along,""  cried  Mr.  Eedmain,  losing,  or  pretending  to 
lose,  patience  with  her;  "you  are  too  unscrupulous  a  liar  for 
me  to  deal  with." 

Mary  turned  and  left  the  room.  As  she  went,  his  keen 
glance  caught  the  expression  of  her  countenance,  and  noted 
the  indignant  red  that  flushed  her  cheeks,  and  the  lightning  of 
wronged  innocence  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  said  it,"  he  remarked  to  himself. 

He  did  not  for  a  moment  fancy  she  had  spoken  the  truth ; 
but  the  look  of  her  went  to  a  deeper  place  in  him  than  he  knew 
even  the  existence  of. 

"Hey  !  stop,"  he  cried,  as  she  was  disappearing.  "Come 
back,  will  you  ?  " 

"I  will  find  Mr.  Mewks,"  she  answered,  and  went. 

After  this,  Mary  naturally  dreaded  conference  with  Mr. 
Eedmain  ;  and  he,  thinking  she  must  have  time  to  get  over  the 
offense  he  had  given  her,  made  for  the  present  no  fresh  attempt 


332  MARY  MARSTOK 

to  come,  by  her  own  aid,  at  a  bird's-eye  view  of  her  character 
and  scheme  of  life.  His  curiosity,  however,  being  in  no  degree 
assuaged  concerning  the  odd  human  animal  whose  spoor  he 
had  for  the  moment  failed  to  track,  he  meditated  how  best  to 
renew  the  attempt  in  London.  Not  small,  therefore,  was  his 
annoyance  to  find,  a  few  days  after  his  arrival,  that  she  was  no 
longer  in  the  house.  He  questioned  his  wife  as  to  the  cause  of 
her  absence,  and  told  her  she  was  utterly  heartless  in  refusing 
her  leave  to  go  and  nurse  her  friend  ;  whereupon  Hesper, 
neither  from  desire  to  do  right  nor  from  regard  to  her  hus- 
band's opinion,  but  because  she  either  saw  or  fancied  she  saw 
that,  now  Mary  did  not  dress  her,  she  no  longer  caused  the 
same  sensation  on  entering  a  room,  resolved  to  write  to  her — as 
if  taking  it  for  granted  she  had  meant  to  return  as  soon  as  she 
was  able.  And  to  prick  the  sides  of  this  intent  came  another 
spur,  as  will  be  seen  from  the  letter  she  wrote  : 

"Dear  Mary,  can  you  tell  me  what  is  become  of  my  large 
sapphire  ring  ?  I  have  never  seen  it  since  you  brought  my 
case  up  with  you  from  Cornwall.  I  have  been  looking  for  it 
all  the  morning,  but  in  vain.  You  must  have  it.  I  shall  be 
lost  without  it,  for  you  know  it  has  not  its  equal  for  color  and 
brilliance.  I  do  not  believe  you  intended  for  a  riioment  to  keep 
it,  but  only  to  punish  me  for  thinking  I  could  do  without  you. 
If  so,  you  have  your  revenge,  for  I  find  I  can  not  do  without 
either  of  you — you  or  the  ring — so  you  will  not  carry  the  joke 
further  than  I  can  bear.  If  you  can  not  come  at  once,  write 
and  tell  me  it  is  safe,  and  I  shall  love  you  more  than  ever.  I 
am  dying  to  see  you  again.     Yours  faithfully,  H.  E." 

By  this  time,  Letty  was  much  better,  and  Tom  no  longer 
required  *  such  continuous  attention  ;  Mary,  therefore,  betook 
herself  at  once  to  Mr.  Eedmain's.  Hesper  was  out  shopping, 
and  Mary  went  to  her  own  room  to  wait  for  her,  where  she  was 
glad  of  the  opportunity  of  getting  at  some  of  the  things  she 
had  left  behind  her. 

While  she  was  looking  for  what  she  wanted,  Sepia  entered, 
and  was,  or  pretended  to  be,  astonished  to  see  her.  In  a 
strange,  sarcastic  tone  : 

"Ah,  you  there  !  "  she  said.     "I  hope  you  will  find  it." 


MART  AND  MR.   REDMAIN.  333 

"  If  you  mean  the  ring,  that  is  not  likely,  Miss  Yolland," 
Mary  answered. 

Sepia  was  silent  a  moment  or  two,  then  said  : 

"How  is  your  cousin  ?" 

"I  have  no  cousin,"  replied  Mary. 

"The  person,  I  mean,  you  have  been  staying  with  ?  " 

"Better,  thank  you." 

"Almost  a  pity,  is  it  not — if  there  should  come  trouble 
about  this  ring  ?  " 

"I  do  not  understand  you.  The  ring  will,  of  course,  be 
found,"  returned  Mary. 

"  In  any  case  the  blame  will  come  on  you  :  it  was  in  your 
charge." 

"The  ring  was  in  the  case  when  I  left." 

"  You  will  have  to  prove  that." 

"  I  remember  quite  well."    . 

"That  no  one  will  question." 

Beginning  at  last  to  understand  her  insinuations,  Mary  was 
so  angry  that  she  dared  not  speak. 

"  But  it  will  hardly  go  to  clear  you,"  Sepia  went  on. 
"  Don't  imagine  I  mean  you  have  taken  it ;  I  am  only  warning 
you  how  the  matter  will  look,  that  you  may  be  prepared.  Mr. 
Eedmain  is  one  to  believe  the  worst  things  of  the  best  people. " 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,"  said  Mary,  "but  I  am  not  anxious." 

"It  is  necessary  you  should  know  also,"  continued  Sepia, 
"  that  there  is  some  suspicion  attaching  to  a  female  friend  of 
yours  as  well,  a  young  woman  who  used  to  visit  you — the  wife 
of  the  other,  it  is  supposed.  She  was  here,  I  remember,  one 
night  there  was  a  party  ;  I  saw  you  together  in  my  cousin's  bed- 
room.    She  had  just  dressed  and  gone  down." 

"  I  remember,"  said  Mary.     "  It  was  Mrs.  Helmer.    Well  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  unfortunate,  certainly  ;  but  the  truth  must  be 
told  :  a  few  days  before  you  left,  one  of  the  servants,  hearing 
some  one  in  the  house  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  got  up  and 
went  down,  but  only  in  time  to  hear  the  front  door  open  and 
shut.  In  the  morning  a  hat  was  found  in  the  drawing-room, 
with  the  name  Thomas  Helmer  in  it :  that  is  the  name  of  your 
friend's  husband,  I  believe  ?  " 


334:  MARY  MARSTOK 

"  I  am  aware  Mr.  Helmer  was  a  frequent  visitor,"  said  Mary, 
trying  to  keep  cool  for  what  was  to  come. 

This  that  Sepia  told  her  was  true  enough,  though  she  was 
not  accurate  as  to  the  time  of  its  occurrence.  I  will  relate 
briefly  how  it  came  about. 

Upon  a  certain  evening,  a  few  days  before  Mary's  return 
from  Cornwall,  Tom  would  have  gone  to  see  Miss  Yolland  had 
he  not  known  that  she  meant  to  go  to  the  play  with  a  Mr.  Em- 
met, a  cousin  of  the  Eedmains.  Before  the  hour  arrived,  how- 
ever, Count  Galofta  called,  and  Sepia  went  out  with  him,  tell- 
ing the  man  who  opened  the  door  to  ask  Mr.  Emmet  to  wait. 
The  man  was  rather  deaf,  and  did  not  catch  with  certainty  the 
name  she  gave.  Mr.  Emmet  did  not  appear,  and  it  was  late 
before  Sepia  returned. 

Tom,  jealous  even  to  hatred,  spent  the  greater  part  of  his 
evening  in  a  tavern  on  the  borders  of  the  city — in  gloomy  soli- 
tude, drinking  brandy-and- water,  and  building  castles  of  the 
most  foolish  type — for  castles  are  as  different  as  the  men  that 
build  them.  Through  all  the  rooms  of  them  glided  the  form 
of  Sepia,  his  evil  genius.  He  grew  more  and  more  excited  as 
he  built,  and  as  he  drank.  He  rose  at  last,  paid  his  bill,  and, 
a  little  suspicious  of  his  equilibrium,  stalked  into  the  street. 
There,  almost  unconsciously,  he  turned  and  walked  westward. 
It  was  getting  late  ;  before  long  the  theatres  would  be  empty- 
ing :  he  might  have  a  peep  of  Sepia  as  she  came  out ! — but 
where  was  the  good  when  that  fellow  was  with  her  !  "But," 
thought  Tom,  growing  more  and  more  daring  as  in  an  adven- 
turous dream,  "■  why  should  I  not  go  to  the  house,  and  see  her 
after  he  has  left  her  at  the  door  ?  " 

He  went  to  the  house  and  rang  the  bell.  The  man  came, 
and  said  immediately  that  Miss  Yolland  was  out,  but  had  de- 
sired him  to  ask  Mr.  Helmer  to  wait ;  whereupon  Tom  walked 
in,  and  up  the  stair  to  the  drawing-room,  thence  into  a  second 
and  a  third  drawing-room,  and  from  the  last  into  the  con- 
servatory. The  man  went  down  and  finished  his  second 
pint  of  ale.  From  the  conservatory,  Tom,  finding  himself 
in  danger  of  havoc  among  the  flower-pots,  turned  back  into 


MARY  AND  MR.  REDMAIN.  335 

the  third  room,  threw  himself  on  a  couch,  and  fell  fast 
asleep. 

He  woke  in  the  middle  of  the  night  in  pitch  darkness ;  and 
it  was  some  time  before  he  could  remember  where  he  was. 
When  he  did,  he  recognized  that  he  was  in  an  awkward  pre- 
dicament. But  he  knew  the  house  well,  and  would  make  the 
attempt  to  get  out  undiscovered.  It  was  foolish,  but  Tom  was 
foolish.  Feeling  his  way,  he  knocked  down  a  small  table  with 
a  great  crash  of  china,  and,  losing  his  equanimity,  rushed  for 
the  stair.  Happily  the  hall  lamp  was  still  alight,  and  he  found 
no  trouble  with  bolts  or  lock  :  the  door  was  not  any  way  se- 
cured. 

The  first  breath  of  the  cold  night-air  brought  with  it  such  a 
gush  of  joy  as  he  had  rarely  experienced  ;  and  he  trod  the  silent 
streets  with  something  of  the  pleasure  of  an  escaped  criminal, 
until,  alas  !  the  wind,  at  the  first  turning,  let  him  know  that 
he  had  left  his  hat  behind  him  !  He  felt  as  if  he  had  com- 
mitted a  murder,  and  left  his  card-case  with  the  body.  A 
vague  terror  grew  upon  him  as  he  hurried  along.  Justice 
seemed  following  on  his  track.  He  had  found  the  door  on  the 
latch  :  if  anything  was  missing,  how  should  he  explain  the 
presence  of  his  hat  without  his  own  ?  The  devil  of  the  brandy 
he  had  drunk  was  gone  out  of  him,  and  only  the  gray  ashes  of 
its  evil  fire  were  left  in  his  sick  brain,  but  it  had  helped  first 
to  kindle  another  fire,  which  was  now  beginning  to  glow  un- 
suspected— that  of  a  fever  whose  fuel  had  been  slowly  gather- 
ing for  some  time. 

He  opened  the  door  with  his  pass-key,  and  hurried  up  the 
stair,  his  long  legs  taking  three  steps  at  a  time.  Never  before 
had  he  felt  as  if  he  were  fleeing  to  a  refuge  when  going  home 
to  his  wife. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  sitting-room — and  there  on  the 
floor  lay  Letty  and  little  Tom,  as  I  have  already  told. 

"Why  have  I  heard  nothing  of  this  before  ?"  said  Mary. 
.  "  I  am  not  aware  of  any  right  you  have  to  know  what  hap- 
pens in  this  house." 

"Not  from  you,  of  course,  Miss  Yolland — perhaps  not 


336  MARY  MARSTOK 

from  Mrs.  Kedmain  ;  but  the  servants  talk  of  most  things,  and 
I  have  not  heard  a  word — " 

"  How  could  you,"  interrupted  Sepia,  when  you  were  not 
in  the  house  ? — And,  so  long  as  nothing  was  missed,  the  thing 
was  of  no  consequence,"  she  added.     "Now  it  is  different." 

This  confused  Mary  a  little.  She  stopped  to  consider.  One 
thing  was  clear — that,  if  the  ring  "was  not  lost  till  after  she  left 
— and  of  so  much  she  was  sure — it  could  not  be  Tom  that  had 
taken  it,  for  he  was  then  ill  in  bed.  Something  to  this  effect 
she  managed  to  say. 

"I  told  you  already,"  returned  Sepia,  "that  I  had  no  sus- 
picion of  him — at  least,  I  desire  to  have  none,  but  you  may  be 
required  to  prove  all  you  say  ;  and  it  is  as  well  to  let  you  under- 
stand— though  there  is  no  reason  why  i"  should  take  the  trouble 
— that  your  going  to  those  very  people  at  the  time,  and  their 
proving  to  be  friends  of  yours,  adds  to  the  difficulty." 

"  How  ?  "  asked  Mary. 

"I  am  not  on  the  jury,"  replied  Sepia,  with  indifference. 

The  scope  of  her  remarks  seemed  to  Mary  intended  to  show 
that  any  suspicion  of  her  would  only  be  natural.  For  the  mo- 
ment the  idea  amused  her.  But  Sepia's  way  of  talking  about 
Tom,  whatever  she  meant  by  it,  was  disgraceful ! 

"I  am  astonished  you  should  seem  so  indifferent,"  she  said, 
' '■  if  the  character  of  a  gentleman  with  whom  you  have  been  so 
intimate  is  so  seriously  threatened  as  you  would  imply.  I  know 
he  has  been  to  see  you  more  than  once  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eed- 
main were  not  yet  returned." 

Sepia's  countenance  changed ;  an  evil  fire  glowed  in  her 
eyes,  and  she  looked  at  Mary  as  if  she  would  search  her  to  the 
bone.     The  poorer  the  character,  the  more  precious  the  repute  ! 

"The  foolish  fellow,"  she  returned,  with  a  smile  of  con- 
tempt, "chose  to  fall  in  love  with  me  ! — A  married  man,  too  ! " 

"  If  you  understood  that,  how  did  he  come  to  be  here  so 
often  ?  "  asked  Mary,  looking  her  in  the  face. 

But  Sepia  knew  better  than  declare  war  a  moment  before  it 
was  unavoidable. 

"  Have  I  not  just  told  you,"  she  said,  in  a  haughty  tone, 
"  that  the  man  was  in  love  with  me  ?  " 


MARY  AND  MR.   REDMAIN.       '  337 

"And  have  you  not  just  told  me  he  was  a  married  man  ? 
Could  he  have  come  to  the  house  so  often  without  at  least  your 
permission  ?  " 

Mary  was  actually  taking  the  upper  hand  with  her  !  Sepia 
felt  it  with  scarcely  repressible  rage. 

"  He  deserved  the  punishment,"  she  replied,  with  calmness. 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  have  thought  of  his  wife  ! " 

"  Certainly  not.     She  never  gave  me  offense." 

"  Is  offense  the  only  ground  for  casting  a  regard  on  a  fel- 
low-creature ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  think  of  her  ?  " 

"  Because  she  was  your  neighbor,  and  you  were  doing  her 
a  wrong." 

"Once  for  all,  Marston,"  cried  Sepia,  overcome  at  last, 
"this  kind  of  thing  will  not  do  with  me.  I  may  not  be  a 
saint,  but  I  have  honesty  enough  to  know  the  genuine  thing 
from  humbug.  You  have  thrown  dust  in  a  good  many  eyes  in 
this  house,  but  none  in  mine. " 

By  this  time  Mary  had  got  her  temper  quite  in  hand,  tak- 
ing a  lesson  from  the  serpent,  who  will  often  keep  his  when  the 
dove  loses  hers.  She  hardly  knew  what  fear  was,  for  she  had 
in  her  something  a  little  stronger  than  what  generally  goes  by 
the  name  of  faith.  She  was  therefore  able  to  see  that  she 
ought,  if  possible,  to  learn  Sepia's  object  in  talking  thus  to 
her. 

"Why  do  you  say  all  this  to  me  ?"  she  asked,  quietly.  "I 
can  not  natter  myself  it  is  from  friendship." 

"Certainly  not.  But  the  motive  may  be  worthy,  for  all 
bhat.  You  are  not  the  only  one  involved.  People  who  would 
pass  for  better  than  their  neighbors  will  never  believe  any 
good  purpose  in  one  who  does  not  choose  to  talk  their  slang." 

Sepia  had  repressed  her  rage,  and  through  it  looked  ag- 
grieved. "She  confesses  to  a  purpose,"  said  Mary  to  herself, 
and  waited. 

"  They  are  not  all  villains  who  are  not  saints,"  Sepia  went 
on.     "  — This  man's  wife  is  your  friend  ?" 

"She  is." 

"  Well,  the  man  himself  is  my  friend — in  a  sort  of  a  sense." 

15 


338  "  MARY  HARSTON. 

A  strange  shiver  went  through  Mary,  and  seemed  to  make 
her  angry.     Sepia  went  on  : 

"I  confess  I  allowed  the  poor  boy — he  is  little  more — to 
talk  foolishly  to  me.  I  was  amused  at  first,  but  perhaps  I 
have  not  quite  escaped  unhurt ;  and,  as  a  woman,  you  must 
understand  that,  when  a  woman  has  once  felt  in  that  way,  if 
but  for  a  moment,  she  would  at  least  be — sorry — "  Here  her 
yoice  faltered,  and  she  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  began 
afresh:  "What  I  want  of  you  is,  through  his  wife,  or  any 
way  you  think  best,  to  let  the  poor  fellow  know  he  had  better 
slip  away — to  France,  say — and  stop  there  till  the  thing  blow 
over." 

"  But  why  should  you  imagine  he  has  had  anything  to  do 
with  the  matter  ?  The  ring  will  be  found,  and  then  the  hat 
will  not  signify." 

"Well,"  replied  Sepia,  putting  on  an  air  of  openness,  and 
for  that  sake  an  air  of  familiarity,  "I  see  I  must  tell  you  the 
whole  truth.  I  never  did  for  a  moment  believe  Mr.  Helmer 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  business,  though,  when  you  put 
me  out  of  temper,  I  pretended  to  believe  it,  and  that  you  were 
in  it  as  well  :  that  was  mere  irritation.  But  there  is  sure  to 
be  trouble ;  for  my  cousin  is  miserable  about  her  sapphire, 
which  she  values  more  than  anything  she  has  ;  and,  if  it  is  not 
found,  the  affair  will  be  put  into  the  hands  of  the  police,  and 
then  what  will  become  of  poor  Mr.  Helmer,  be  he  as  innocent 
as  you  and  I  believe  him  !  Even  if  the  judge  should  declare 
that  he  leaves  the  court  without  a  blot  on  his  character,  New- 
gate mud  is  sure  to  stick,  and  he  will  be  half  looked  upon  as  a 
thief  for  the  rest  of  his  days  :  the  world  is  so  unjust.  Nor  is 
that  all ;  for  they  will  put  you  in  the  witness-box,  and  make 
you  confess  the  man  an  old  friend  of  yours  from  the  same  part 
of  the  country ;  whereupon  the  counsel  for  the  prosecution 
will  not  fail  to  hint  that  you  ought  to  be  standing  beside  the 
accused.  Believe  me,  Mary,  that,  if  Mr.  Helmer  is  taken  up 
for  this,  you  will  not  come  out  of  it  clean." 

"Still  you  explain  nothing,"  said  Mary.  "You  would  not 
have  me  believe  it  is  for  my  sake  you  are  giving  yourself  all 
this  trouble  ?  " 


MARY  AND  MB.  BEDMAIN.  339 

"  No.  But  I  thought  you  would  see  where  I  was  leading 
you.  For — and  now  for  the  whole  truth — although  nothing 
can  touch  the  character  of  one  in  my  position,  it  would  be 
worse  than  awkward  for  me  to  be  spoken  of  in  connection  with 
the  poor  fellow's  visits  to  the  house  :  my  honesty  would  not  be 
called  in  question  as  yours  would,  but  what  is  dear  to  me  as 
my  honesty  might — nay,  it  certainly  would.  You  see  now 
why  I  came  to  you  ! — You  must  go  to  his  wife,  or,  better  still, 
to  Mr.  Helmer  himself,  and  tell  him  what  I  have  been  saying 
to  you.  He  will  at  once  see  the  necessity  of  disappearing  for 
a  while." 

Mary  had  listened  attentively.  She  could  not  help  fearing 
that  something  worse  than  unpleasant  might  be  at  hand  ;  but 
she  did  not  believe  in  Sepia,  and  in  no  case  could  consent  that 
Tom  should  compromise  himself.  Danger  of  this  kind  must 
be  met,  not  avoided.  Still,  whatever  could  be  done  ought  to 
be  done  to  protect  him,  especially  in  his  present  critical  state. 
A  breath  of  such  a  suspicion  as  this  reaching  him  might  be  the 
death  of  him,  and  of  Letty,  too. 

"I  will  think  over  what  you  have  said,"  she  answered; 
"but  I  can  not  give  him  the  advice  you  wish  me.  What  I 
shall  do  I  can  not  say — the  thing  has  come  upon  me  with  such 
a  shock." 

"  You  have  no  choice  that  I  see,"  said  Sepia.  "  It  is  either 
what  I  propose  or  ruin.  I  give  you  fair  warning  that  I  will 
stick  at  nothing  where  my  reputation  is  concerned.  You  and 
yours  shall  be  trod  in  the  dirt  before  I  allow  a  spot  on  my 
character ! " 

To  Mary's  relief  they  were  here  interrupted  by  the  hurried 
entrance  of  Mrs.  Eedmain.  She  almost  ran  up  to  her,  and 
took  her  by  both  hands. 

"You  dear  creature  !  You  have  brought  me  my  ring!" 
she  cried. 

Mary  shook  her  head  with  a  little  sigh. 

"  But  you  have  come  to  tell  me  where  it  is  ?" 

"Alas  !  no,  dear  Mrs.  Redmain  !  "  said  Mary. 

"  Then  you  must  find  it,"  she  said,  and  turned  away  with 
an  ominous-looking  frown. 


340  MARY  MARSTON. 

"I  will  do  all  I  can  to  help  you  find  it." 

"  Oil,  you  must  find  it  !  My  jewel-case  was  in  your 
charge." 

"  But  there  has  been  time  to  lose  everything  in  it,  the  one 
after  the  other,  since  I  gave  it  up.  The  sapphire  ring  was 
there,  I  know,  when  I  went." 

"That  can  not  be.  You  gave  me  the  box,  and  I  put  it 
away  myself,  and,  the  next  time  I  looked  in  it,  it  was  not  there." 

"I  wish  I  had  asked  you  to  open  it  when  I  gave  it  you," 
said  Mary. 

"I  wish  you  had,"  said  Hesper.  "But  the  ring  must  be 
found,  or  I  shall  send  for  the  police." 

"I  will  not  make  matters  worse,  Mrs.  Eedmain,"  said 
Mary,  with  as  much  calmness  as  she  could  assume,  and  much 
was  needed,  "  by  pointing  out  what  your  words  imply.  If  you 
really  mean  what  you  say,  it  is  I  who  must  insist  on  the  police 
being  sent  for." 

"I  am  sure,  Mary,"  said  Sepia,  speaking  for  the  first  time 
since  Hesper's  entrance,  "that  your  mistress  has  no  intention 
of  accusing  you." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Hesper;  "only,  what  am  I  to  do  ? 
I  must  have  my  ring.  Why  did  you  come,  if  you  had  nothing 
to  tell  me  about  it  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  stay  away  when  you  were  in  trouble  ?  Have 
you  searched  everywhere  ?  " 

"Everywhere  I  can  think  of." 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  help  you  look  ?  I  feel  certain  it 
will  be  found." 

"No,  thank  you.     I  am  sick  of  looking." 

"Shall  I  go,  then  ? — What  would  you  like  me  to  do  ?  " 

"Go  to  your  room,  and  wait  till  I  send  for  you." 

"I  must  not  be  long  away  from  my  invalids,"  said  Mary, 
as  cheerfully  as  she  could. 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  I  thought  you  had  come  back  to  your 
work ! " 

"I  did  not  understand  from  your  letter  you  wished  that, 
ma'am — though,  indeed,  I  could  not  have  come  just  yet  in  any 
case." 


MARY  AND  MR.  REDMAIN.  341 

"  Then  you  mean  to  go,  and  leave  things  just  as  they  are  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  help  for  it.  If  I  could  do  any- 
thing— .  But  I  will  call  again  to-morrow,  and  every  day  till 
the  ring  is  found,  if  you  like." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Hesper,  dryly;  "I  don't  think  that 
would  he  of  much  use." 

"  I  will  call  anyhow,"  returned  Mary,  "and  inquire  whether 
you  would  like  to  see  me. — I  will  go  to  my  room  now,  and 
while  I  wait  will  get  some  things  I  want." 

"  As  you  please,"  said  Hesper. 

Scarcely  was  Mary  in  her  room,  however,  when  she  heard 
the  door,  which  had  the  trick  of  falling-to  of  itself,  closed  and 
locked,  and  knew  that  she  was  a  prisoner.  For  one  moment  a 
frenzy  of  anger  overcame  her  ;  the  next,  she  remembered  where 
her  life  was  hid,  knew  that  nothing  could  touch  her,  and  was 
calm.  While  she  took  from  her  drawers  the  things  she  wanted, 
and  put  them  in  her  hand-bag,  she  heard  the  door  unlocked, 
but,  as  no  one  entered,  she  sat  down  to  wait  what  would  next 
arrive. 

Mrs.  Kedmain,  as  soon  as  she  was  aware  of  her  loss,  had 
gone  in  her  distress  to  tell  her  husband,  whose  gift  the  ring 
had  been.  Unlike  his  usual  self,  he  had  showed  interest  in  the 
affair.  She  attributed  this  to  the  value  of  the  jewel,  and  the 
fact  that  he  had  himself  chosen  it :  he  was  rather,  and  thought 
himself  very,  knowing  in  stones  ;  and  the  sapphire  was  in  truth 
a  most  rare  one  :  but  it  was  for  quite  other  reasons  that  Mr. 
Kedmain  cared  about  its  loss  :  it  would,  he  hoped,  like  the 
famous  carbuncle,  cast  a  light  all  round  it. 

He  was  as  yet  by  no  means  well,  and  had  not  been  from  the 
house  since  his  return. 

The  moment  Mary  was  out  of  the  room,  Hesper  rose. 

"  I  should  be  a  fool  to  let  her  leave  the  house,"  she  said. 

"  Hesper,  you  will  do  nothing  but  mischief,"  cried  Sepia. 

Hesper  paid  no  attention,  but,  going  after  Mary,  locked  the 
door  of  her  room,  and,  running  to  her  husband's,  told  him  she 
had  made  her  a  prisoner. 

No  sooner  was  she  in  her  husband's  room  than  Sepia  hast- 
ened to  unlock  Mary's  door  ;  but,  just  as  she  did  so,  she  heard 


342  MART  MARSTON. 

some  one  on  the  stair  above,  and  retreated  without  going  in. 
She  would  then  have  turned  the  key  again,  but  now  she  heard 
steps  on  the  stair  below,  and  once  more  withdrew. 

Mary  heard  a  knock  at  her  door.  Mewks  entered.  He 
brought  a  request  from  his  master  that  she  would  go  to  his 
room. 

She  rose  and  went,  taking  her  bag  with  her. 

"  You  may  go  now,  Mrs.  Kedmain,"  said  her  husband  when 
Mary  entered.  "  Get  out,  Mewks,"  he  added ;  and  both  lady 
and  valet  disappeared. 

"So  ! "  he  said,  with  a  grin  of  pleasure.  " Here's  a  pretty 
business  !  You  may  sit  down,  though.  You  haven't  got  the 
ring  in  that  bag  there  ?  " 

"Nor  anywhere  else,  sir,"  answered  Mary.  "  Shall  I  shake 
it  out  on  the  floor  ? — or  on  the  sofa  would  be  better." 

"Nonsense  !  You  don't  imagine  me  such  a  fool  as  to  sup- 
pose, if  you  had  it,  you  would  carry  it  about  in  your  bag  ! " 

"  You  don't  believe  I  have  it,  sir — do  you  ?"  she  returned, 
in  a  tone  of  appeal. 

"How  am  I  to  know  what  to  believe?  There  is  some- 
thing dubious  about  you — you  have  yourself  all  but  admitted 
that :  how  am  I  to  know  that  robbery  mayn't  be  your  little 
dodge  ?  All  that  rubbish  you  talked  down  at  Lychford  about 
honesty,  and  taking  no  wages,  and  loving  your  mistress,  and 
all  that  rot,  looks  devilish  like  something  off  the  square  ! 
That  ring,  now,  the  stone  of  it  alone,  is  worth  seven  hundred 
pounds  :  one  might  let  pretty  good  wages  go  for  a  chance  like 
that!" 

Mary  looked  him  in  the  face,  and  made  him  no  answer. 
He  spied  a  danger  :  if  he  irritated  her,  he  would  get  nothing 
out  of  her  ! 

"My  girl,"  he  said,  changing  his  tone,  "I  believe  you 
know  nothing  about  the  ring  ;  I  was  only  teasing  you." 

Mary  could  not  help  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  her  eyes  fell,  for 
she  felt  them  beginning  to  fill.  She  could  not  have  believed 
that  the  judgment  of  such  a  man  would  ever  be  of  consequence 
to  her.  But  the  unity  of  the  race  is  a  thing  that  can  not  be 
broken. 


MARY  AND  MR.  REDMAIK  343 

Now,  although  Mr.  Eedmain  was  by  no  means  so  sure  of 
her  innocence  as  he  had  pretended,  he  did  at  least  wish  and 
hope  to  find  her  innocent — from  no  regard  for  her,  but  be- 
cause there  was  another  he  would  be  more  glad  .to  find  con- 
cerned in  the  ugly  affair. 

"Mrs.  Eedmain,"  he  went  on,  "would  have  me  hand  you 
over  to  the  police  ;  but  I  won't.  You  may  go  home  when  you 
please,  and  you  need  fear  nothing." 

He  had  the  house  where  the  Helmers  lodged  already 
watched,  and  knew  this  much,  that  some  one  was  ill  there, 
and  that  the  doctor  came  almost  every  day. 

"I  certainly  shall  fear  nothing,"  said  Mary,  not  quite 
trusting  him ;  "  my  fate  is  in  God's  hands." 

"We  know  all  about  that,"  said  Mr.  Eedmain;  "I'm  up 
to  most  dodges.  But  look  here,  my  girl :  it  wouldn't  be  pru- 
dent in  me,  lest  there  should  be  such  a  personage  as  you  have 
just  mentioned,  to  be  hard  upon  any  of  my  fellow-creatures : 
I  am  one  day  pretty  sure  to  be  in  misfortune  myself.  You 
mightn't  think  it  of  me,  but  I  am  not  quite  a  heathen,  and 
do  reflect  a  little  at  times.  You  may  be  as  wicked  as  myself, 
or  as  good  as  Joseph,  for  anything  I  know  or  care,  for,  as  I 
say,  it  ain't  my  business  to  judge  you.  Tell  me  now  what  you 
are  up  to,  and  I  will  make  it  the  better  for  you." 

Mary  had  been  trying  hard  to  get  at  what  he  was  "up  to," 
but  found  herself  quite  bewildered. 

"I  am  sorry,  sir,"  she  faltered,  "but  I  haven't  the  slight- 
est idea  what  you  mean." 

"  Then  you  go  home,"  he  said.  "  I  will  send  for  you  when 
I  want  you." 

The  moment  she  was  out  of  the  room,  he  rang  his  bell  vio- 
lently.    Mewks  appeared. 

"Go  after  that  young  woman — do  you  hear  ?  You  know 
her — Miss — damn  it,  what's  her  name  ? — Harland  or  Cranston, 
or — oh,  hang  it  !  you  know  well  enough,  you  rascal ! " 

"Do  you  mean  Miss  Marston,  sir  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  do  !  Why  didn't  you  say  so  before  ?  Go  after 
her,  I  tell  you  ;  and  make  haste.  If  she  goes  straight  home — 
you  know  where — come  back  as  soon  as  she's  inside  the  door." 


344:  MARY  MAR8T0K 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Damn  you,  go,  or  you'll  lose  sight  of  her  !  " 

"I'm  a-listenin'  after  the  street-door,  sir.  It  ain't  gone  yet. 
There  it  is  now  ! " 

And  with  the  word  he  left  the  room. 

Mary  was  too  much  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts  to 
note  that  she  was  followed  by  a  man  with  the  collar  of  his 
great-coat  up  to  his  eyes,  and  a  woolen  comforter  round  his 
face.  She  walked  on  steadily  for  home,  scarce  seeing  the  peo- 
ple that  passed  her.  It  was  clear  to  Mewks  that  she  had  not 
a  suspicion  of  being  kept  in  sight.  He  saw  her  in  at  her  own 
door,  and  went  back  to  his  master. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

JOSEPH   JASPEK. 

Another  fact  Mewks  carried  to  his  master — namely,  that, 
as  Mary  came  near  the  door  of  the  house,  she  was  met  by  "a 
rough-looking  man,"  who  came  walking  slowly  along,  as  if  he 
had  been  going  up  and  down  waiting  for  her.  He  made  her 
an  awkward  bow  as  she  drew  near,  and  she  stopped  and  had  a 
long  conversation  with  him — such  at  least  it  seemed  to  Mewks, 
annoyed  that  he  could  hear  nothing  of  it,  and  fearful  of  attract- 
ing their  attention — after  which  the  man  went  away,  and  Mary 
went  into  the  house.  This  report  made  his  master  grin,  for, 
through  the  description  Mewks  gave,  he  suspected  a  thief  dis- 
guised as  a  workman  ;  but,  his  hopes  being  against  the  suppo- 
sition, he  dwelt  the  less  upon  it. 

The  man  who  stopped  Mary,  and  whom,  indeed,  she  would 
have  stopped,  was  Joseph  Jasper,  the  blacksmith.  That  he 
was  rough  in  appearance,  no  one  who  knew  him  would  have 
wished  himself  able  to  deny,  and  one  less  like  a  thief  would 
have  been  hard  to  find.  His  hands  were  very  rough  and  in- 
grained with  black ;  his  fingers  were  long,  but  chopped  off 
square  at  the  points,  and  had  no  resemblance  to  the  long,  taper- 


JOSEPH  JASPER.  345 

mg  fingers  of  an  artist  or  pickpocket.  His  clothes  were  of 
corduroy,  not  very  grimy,  because  of  the  huge  apron  of  thick 
leather  he  wore  at  his  work,  but  they  looked  none  the  better 
that  he  had  topped  them  with  his  tall  Sunday  hat.  His  com- 
plexion was  a  mixture  of  brown  and  browner ;  his  black  eye- 
brows hung  far  over  the  blackest  of  eyes,  the  brightest  flashing 
of  which  was  never  seen,  because  all  the  time  he  played  he  kept 
them  closed  tight.  His  face  wore  its  natural  clothing — a 
mustache  thick  and  well-shaped,  and  a  beard  not  too  large,  of 
a  color  that  looked  like  black  burned  brown.  His  hair  was 
black  and  curled  all  over  his  head.  His  whole  appearance  was 
that  of  a  workman ;  a  careless  glance  could  never  have  sus- 
pected him  a  poet-musician  ;  as  little  could  even  such  a  glance 
have  failed  to  see  in  him  an  honest  man.  He  was  powerfully 
built,  over  the  middle  height,  but  not  tall.  He  spoke  very  fair 
old-fashioned  English,  with  the  Yorkshire  tone  and  turn.  His 
walk  was  rather  plodding,  and  his  movements  slow  and  stiff ; 
but  in  communion  with  his  violin  they  were  free  enough,  and 
the  more  delicate  for  the  strength  that  was  in  them ;  at  the 
anvil  they  were  as  supple  as  powerful.  On  his  face  dwelt 
an  expression  that  was  not  to  be  read  by  the  indifferent — a 
waiting  in  the  midst  of  work,  as  of  a  man  to  whom  the  sense 
of  the  temporary  was  always  present,  but  present  with  the 
constant  reminder  that,  just  therefore,  work  must  be  as  good 
as  work  can  be  that  things  may  last  their  due  time. 

The  following  was  the  conversation  concerning  the  purport 
of  which  Mewks  was  left  to  what  conjecture  was  possible  to  a 
serving-man  of  his  stamp. 

Mary  held  out  her  hand  to  Jasper,  and  it  disappeared  in 
his.  He  held  it  for  a  moment  with  a  great  but  gentle  grasp, 
and,  as  he  let  it  go,  said  : 

"  I  took  the  liberty  of  watching  for  you,  miss.  I  wanted 
to  ask  a  favor  of  you.  It  seemed  to  me  you  would  take  no  of- 
fense." 

"  You  might  be  sure  of  that,"  Mary  answered.  "  You 
have  a  right  to  anything  I  can  do  for  you." 

He  fixed  his  gaze  on  her  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  did  not  un- 
derstand her. 


346  MARY  MARSTOK 

"  That's  where  it  is,"  lie  said  :  "  I've  done  nothing  for  your 
people .  It's  all  very  well  to  go  playing  and  playing,  but  that's 
not  doing  anything ;  and,  if  he  had  done  nothing,  there  would 
ha'  been  no  fiddling.  You  understand  me,  miss,  I  know  : 
work  comes  before  music,  and  makes  the  soul  of  it ;  it's  not 
the  music  that  makes  the  doing.  I'm  a  poor  hand  at  saying 
without  my  fiddle,  miss  :  you'll  excuse  me." 

Mary's  heart  was  throbbing.  She  had  not  heard  a  word 
like  this — not  since  her  father  went  to  what  people  call  the 
"long  home" — as  if  a  home  could  be  too  long  !  What  do  we 
want  but  an  endless  home  ? — only  it  is  not  the  grave  !  She 
felt  as  if  the  spirit  of  her  father  had  descended  on  the  strange 
workman,  and  had  sent  him  to  her.  She  looked  at  him  with 
shining  eyes,  and  did  not  speak.  He  resumed,  as  fearing  he 
had  not  conveyed  his  thought. 

"  What  I  think  I  mean  is,  miss,  that,  if  the  working  of 
miracles  in  his  name  wouldn't  do  it,  it's  not  likely  playing  the 
fiddle  will." 

."Oh,  I  understand  you  so  well !"  said  Mary,  in  a  voice 
hardly  her  own,  " — so  well!  It  makes  me  happy  to  hear 
you  !     Tell  me  what  I  can  do  for  you. " 

"  The  poor  gentleman  in  there  must  want  all  the  help  you 
can  give  him,  and  more.  There  must  be  something  left,  surely, 
for  a  man  to  do.  He  must  want  lifting  at  times,  for  instance, 
and  that's  not  fit  for  either  of  you  ladies."    , 

"  Thank  j^ou,"  said  Mary,  heartily.  "  I  will  mention  it  to 
Mrs.  Helmer,  and  I  am  sure  she  will  be  very  glad  of  your  help 
sometimes." 

st  Couldn't  you  ask  her  now,  miss  ?  I  should  like  to  know 
at  what  hour  I  might  call.  But  perhaps  the  best  way  would 
be  to  walk  about  here  in  the  evening,  after  my  day's  work  is 
over,  and  then  you  could  run  down  any  time,  and  look  out : 
that  would  be  enough  ;  I  should  be  there.  Saturday  nights  I 
could  just  as  well  be  there  all  night." 

To  Tom  and  Letty  it  seemed  not  a  little  peculiar  that  a 
man  so  much  a  stranger  should  be  ready  to  walk  about  the 
street  in  order  to  be  at  hand  with  help  for  them  ;  but  Mary 
was  only  delighted,  not  surprised,  for  what  the  man  had  said 


JOSEPH  JASPER.  347 

to  her  made  the  thing  not  merely  intelligible,  bnt  absolutely 
reasonable. 

Joseph  -was  not,  however,  allowed  to  wander  the  street. 
The  arrangement  made  was,  that,  as  soon  as  his  work  was  over, 
he  should  come  and  see  whether  there  was  anything  he  could 
do  for  them.  And  he  never  came  but  there  was  plenty  to  do. 
He  took  a  lodging  close  by,  that  he  might  be  with  them  earlier, 
and  stay  later  ;  and,  when  nothing  else  was  wanted  of  him,  he 
was  always  ready  to  discourse  on  his  violin.  Sometimes  Tom 
enjoyed  his  music  much,  though  he  found  no  little  fault  with 
his  mode  of  playing,  for  Tom  knew  something  about  every- 
thing, and  could  render  many  a  reason  ;  at  other  times,  he  pre- 
ferred having  Mary  read  to  him. 

On  one  of  these  latter  occasions,  Mary,  occupied  in  cooking 
something  for  the  invalid,  asked  Joseph  to  read  for  her.  He 
consented,  but  read  very  badly — as  if  he  had  no  understanding 
of  the  words,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  stopping  every  few  lines, 
apparently  to  think  and  master  what  he  had  read.  This  was 
not  good  reading  anyway,  least  of  all  for  an  invalid  who  re- 
quired the  soothing  of  half -thought,  molten  and  diluted  in 
sweet,  even,  monotonous  sound,  and  it  was  long  before  Mary 
asked  him  again. 

Many  things  showed  that  he  had  had  little  education,  and 
therefore  probably  the  more  might  be  made  of  him.  Mary 
saw  that  he  must  be  what  men  call  a  genius,  for  his  external 
history  had  been,  by  his  own  showing,  of  an  altogether  com- 
monplace type. 

Sis  father,  who  was  a  blacksmith  before  him,  and  a  local 
preacher,  had  married  a  second  time,  and  Joseph  was  the  only 
child  of  the  second  marriage.  His  father  had  brought  him  up 
to  his  own  trade,  and,  after  his  death,  Joseph  came  to  work 
in  London,  whither  his  sister  had  preceded  him.  He  was  now 
thirty,  and  had  from  the  first  been  saving  what  he  could  of  his 
wages  in  the  hope  of  one  day  having  a  smithy  of  his  own,  and 
his  time  more  at  his  ordering. 

Mary  saw  too  that  in  his  violin  he  possessed  a  grand  funda- 
mental undeveloped  education  ;  he  was  like  a  man  going  about 
the  world  with  a  ten-thousand-pound-note  in  his  pocket,  and 


348  MART  MARSTOK 

not  many  sixpences  to  pay  his  way  with.  But  there  was  an- 
other education  working  in  him  far  deeper,  and  already  more 
developed,  than  that  which  divine  music  even  was  giving  him  ; 
this  also  Mary  thoroughly  recognized  ;  this  it  was  in  him  that 
chiefly  attracted  her  ;  and  the  man  himself  knew  it  as  under- 
lying all  his  consciousness. 

Though  he  could  ill  read  aloud,  he  could  read  well  for  his 
inward  nourishment ;  he  could  write  tolerably,  and,  if  he  could 
not  spell,  that  mattered  a  straw,  and  no  more  ;  he  had  never 
read  a  play  of  Shakespeare — had  never  seen  a  play  ;  knew  no- 
thing of  grammar  or  geography — or  of  history,  except  the  one 
history  comprising  all.  He  knew  nothing  of  science  ;  but  he 
could  shoe  a  horse  as  well  as  any  man  in  the  three  Ridings,  and 
make  his  violin  talk  about  things  far  beyond  the  ken  of  most 
men  of  science. 

So  much  of  a  change  had  passed  upon  Tom  in  his  illness, 
that  Mary  saw  it  not  unreasonable  to  try  upon  him  now  and 
then  a  poem  of  her  favorite  singer.  Occasionally,  of  course, 
the  feeling  was  altogether  beyond  him,  but  even  then  he  would 
sometimes  enter  into  the  literary  merit  of  the  utterance. 

"I  had  no  idea  there  were  such  gems  in  George  Herbert, 
Mary  !"  he  said  once.  "1  declare,  some  of  them  are  even  in 
their  structure  finer  than  many  things  that  have  nothing  in 
them  to  admire  except  the  structure." 

"  That  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,"  replied  Mary. 

"  No,"  said  Joseph  ;  "it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at ;  for  it's 
clear  to  me  the  old  gentleman  plied  a  good  bow.  I  can  see 
that  plain  enough." 

"  Tell  us  how  you  see  it,"  said  Mary,  more  interested  than 
she  would  have  liked  to  show. 

"  Easily,"  he  answered.  "  There  was  one  poem" — he  pro- 
nounced it  pome— "  you  read  just  now — " 

"Which  ?  which  ?"  interrupted  Mary,  eagerly. 

"  That  I  can  not  tell  you  ;  but,  all  the  time  you  were  read- 
ing it,  I  heard  the  gentleman — Mr.  George  Herbert,  you  call 
him — playing  the  tune  to  it." 

"  If  you  heard  him  so  well,"  ventured  Mary,  "  you  could,  I 
fancy,  play  the  tune  over  again  to  us." 


JOSEPH  JASPER.  349 

"I  think  I  could,"  lie  answered,  and,  rising,  went  for  his 
instrument,  which  he  always  brought,  and  hung  on  an  old 
nail  in  the  wall  the  moment  he  came  in. 

He  played  a  few  bars  of  a  prelude,  as  if  to  get  himself  into 
harmony  with  the  recollection  of  what  he  had  heard  the  master 
play,  and  then  began  a  lively  melody,  in  which  he  seemed  as 
usual  to  pour  out  his  soul.  Long  before  he  reached  the  end  of 
it,  Mary  had  reached  the  poem. 

"  This  is  the  one  you  mean,  is  it  not  ?  "  she  said,  as  soon  as 
he  had  finished — and  read  it  again. 

In  his  turn  he  did  not  speak  till  she  had  ended. 

"  That's  it,  miss,"  he  said  then  ;  "I  can't  mistake  it ;  for, 
the  minute  you  began,  there  was  the  old  gentleman  again  with 
his  fiddle." 

"And  you  know  now  what  it  says,  don't  you?"  asked 
Mary.. 

"I  heard  nothing  but  the  old  gentleman,"  answered  the 
musician. 

Mary  turned  to  Tom. 

"Would  you  mind  if  I  tried  to  show  Mr.  Jasper  what  I  see 
in  the  poem  ?  He  can't  get  a  hold  of  it  himself  for  the  mas- 
ter's violin  in  his  ears  ;  it  won't  let  him  think  about  it." 

' f  I  should  like  myself  to  hear  what  you  have  got  to  say 
about  it,  Mary  !     Go  on,"  said  Tom. 

Mary  had  now  for  a  long  time  been  a  student  of  George 
Herbert  ;  and  anything  of  a  similar  life-experience  goes  in- 
finitely further,  to  make  one  understand  another,  than  any 
amount  of  learning  or  art.  Therefore,  better  than  many  a 
poet,  Mary  was  able  to  set  forth  the  scope  and  design  of  this 
one.  Herself  at  the  heart  of  the  secret  from  which  came  all 
his  utterance,  she  could  fit  herself  into  most  of  the  convolu- 
tions of  the  shell  of  his  expression,  and  was  hence  able  also  to 
make  others  perceive  in  his  verse  not  a  little  of  what  they  were 
of  themselves  unable  to  see. 

"We  shall  have  you  lecturing  at  the  Eoyal  Institution  yet, 
Mary,"  said  Tom;  "only  it -will  be  long  before  its  members 
care  for  that  sort  of  antique." 

Tom's  insight  had  always  been  ahead  of  his  character,  and 


350  MARY  MAR8T0K 

of  late  he  had  been  growing.  People  do  grow  very  fast  in  bed 
sometimes.  Also  he  had  in  him  plenty  of  material,  to  which 
a  childlike  desire  now  began  to  give  shapes  and  sequences. 

The  musician's  remark  consisted  in  taking  his  violin,  and 
once  more  giving  his  idea  of  the  "  old  gentleman's "  music, 
but  this  time  with  a  richer  expression  and  fuller  harmonies. 
Mary  had  every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  her  experiment. 
From  that  time  she  talked  a  good  deal  more  about  her  favorite 
writers,  and  interested  both  the  critical  taste  of  Tom  and  the 
artistic  instinct  of  the  blacksmith. 

But  Joseph's  playing  had  great  faults  :  how  could  it  be 
otherwise  ? — and  to  Mary  great  seemed  the  pity  that  genius 
should  not  be  made  perfect  in  faculty,  that  it  should  not  have 
that  redemption  of  its  body  for  which  unwittingly  it  groaned. 
And  the  man  was  one  of  those  childlike  natures  which  may 
indeed  go  a  long  time  without  discovering  this  or  that  external 
fault  in  themselves,  patent  to  the  eye  of  many  an  inferior  on- 
looker— for  the  simple  soul  is  the  last  to  see  its  own  outside — 
but,  once  they  become  aware  of  it,  begin  that  moment  to  set 
the  thing  right.  At  the  same  time  he  had  not  enough  of 
knowledge  to  render  it  easy  to  show  him  by  words  wherein  any 
fault  consisted — the  nature,  the  being  of  the  fault,  that  is — 
what  it  simply  was  ;  but  Mary  felt  confident  that,  the  moment 
he  saw  a  need,  he  would  obey  its  law. 

She  had  taken  for  herself  the  rooms  below,  formerly  oc- 
cupied by  the  Helmers,  with  the  hope  of  seeing  them  before 
long  reinstated  in  them  ;  and  there  she  had  a  piano,  the  best 
she  could  afford  to  hire  :  with  its  aid  she  hoped  to  do  some- 
thing toward  the  breaking  of  the  invisible  bonds  that  tied  the 
wings  of  Jasper's  genius. 

His  great  fault  lay  in  his  time.  Dare  I  suggest  that  he 
contented  himself  with  measuring  it  to  his  inner  ear,  and  let 
his  fingers,  like  horses  which  he  knew  he  had  safe  in  hand, 
play  what  pranks  they  pleased  ?  A  reader  may,  I  think,  be 
measuring  verse  correctly  to  himself,  and  yet  make  of  it 
nothing  but  rugged  prose  to  his  hearers.  Perhaps  this  may  be 
how  severe  masters  of  quantity  in  the  abstract  are  so  careless 
of  it  in  the  concrete — in  the  audible,  namely,  where  alone  it  is 


JOSEPH  JASPER.  351 

of  yalue.  Shall  I  analogize  yet  a  little  further,  and  suggest 
the  many  who  admire  righteousness  and  work  iniquity;  who 
say,  "Lord,  Lord,"  and  seldom  or  never  obey  ?  Anyhow,  a 
man  may  have  a  good  enough  ear,  with  which  he  holds  all  the 
time  a  secret  understanding,  and  from  carelessness  offend 
grievously  the  ears  he  ought  to  please ;  and  it  was  thus  with 
Joseph  Jasper. 

Mary  was  too  wise  to  hurry  anything.  One  evening  when 
he  came  as  usual,  and  she  knew  he  was  not  at  the  moment 
wanted,  she  asked  him  to  take  a  seat  while  she  played  some- 
thing to  him.  But  she  was  not  a  little  disappointed  in  the 
reception  he  gave  her  offering — a  delicate  morsei  from  Beet- 
hoven. She  tried  something  else,  hut  with  no  hetter  result. 
He  showed  little  interest :  he  was  not  a  man  capable  of  show- 
ing where  nothing  was,  for  he  never  meant  to  show  anything  ; 
his  expression  was  only  the  ripple  of  the  unconscious  pool  to 
the  sway  and  swirl  of  the  fishes  below.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had 
only  a  narrow  entrance  for  the  admission  of  music  into  his 
understanding — but  a  large  outlet  for  the  spring  that  rose 
within  him,  and  was,  therefore,  a  somewhat  remarkable  excep- 
tion to  the  common  run  of  mortals  :  in  such,  the  capacity  for 
reception  far  exceeds  the  capability  of  production.  His  domi- 
nant ^thoughts  were  in  musical  form,  and  easily  found  their 
expression  in  music  ;  but,  mainly  no  doubt  from  want  of  prac- 
tice in  reception,  and  experience  of  variety  in  embodiment, 
the  forms  in  which  others  gave  themselves  utterance  could  not 
with  corresponding  readiness  find  their  way  to  the  sympathetic 
place  in  him.  But  pride  or  repulsion  had  no  share  in  this 
defect.  The  man  was  open  and  inspired,  and  stupid  as  a 
child. 

The  next  time  she  made  the  attempt  to  open  this  channel 
between  them,  something  she  played  did  find  him,  and  for  a 
few  minutes  he  seemed  lost  in  listening. 

"How  nice  it  would  be,"  she  said,  "if  we  could  play  to- 
gether sometimes  ! " 

"Do  you  mean  both  at  once,  miss  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes — you  on  your  violin,  and  I  on  the  piano." 

"That  could  hardly  be,  I'm  afraid,  miss,"  he  answered; 


352  MART  MAR8T0N. 

"for,  you  see,  I  don't  know  always — not  exactly — what  I'm 
going  to  play ;  and  if  I  don't  know,  and  you  don't  know,  how 
are  we  to  keep  together  ?  " 

"Nobody  can  play  your  own  things  but  yourself,  of  course 
— that  is,  until  you  are  able  to  write  them  down ;  but,  if  you 
would  learn  something,  we  could  play  that  together." 

"I  don't  know  how  to  learn.  I've  heard  tell  of  the  notes 
and  all  that,  but  I  don't  know  how  to  work  them." 

"You  have  heard  the  choir  in  the  church — all  keeping 
with  the  organ,"  said  Mary. 

"  Scarcely  since  I  was  a  child — and  not  very  often  then — 
though  my  mother  took  me  sometimes.  But  I  was  always 
wanting  to  get  out  again,  and  gave  no  heed." 

"Do  you  never  go  to  church  now  ?" 

"No,  miss — not  for  long.     Time's  too  precious  to  waste." 

"  How  do  you  spend  it,  then  ?" 

"As  soon  as  I've  had  my  breakfast — that's  on  a  Sunday,  I 
mean — I  get  up  and  lock  my  door,  and  set  myself  to  have  a 
day  of  it.  Then  I  read  the  next  thing  where  I  stopped  last — 
whether  it  be  a  chapter  or  a  verse — till  I  get  the  sense  of  it — if 
I  can't  get  that,  it's  no  manner  of  use  to  me  ;  and  I  generally 
know  when  I've  got  it  by  finding  the  bow  in  one  hand  and  the 
fiddle  in  the  other.  Then,  with  the  two  together,  I  go  stirring 
and  stirring  about  at  the  story,  and  the  music  keeps  coming 
and  coming  ;  and  when  it  stops,  which  it  does  sometimes  all  at 
once,  then  I  go  back  to  the  book." 

"But  you  don't  go  on  like  that  all  day,  do  you?"  said 
Mary. 

"  I  generally  go  on  till  I'm  hungry,  and  then  I  go  out  for 
something  to  eat.  My  landlady  won't  get  me  any  dinner.  Then 
I  come  back  and  begin  again." 

"Will  you  let  me  teach  you  to  read  music  ?"  said  Mary, 
more  and  more  delighted  with  him,  and  desirous  of  contribut- 
ing to  his  growth — the  one  great  service  of  the  universe. 

"If  yon  would,  miss,  perhaps  then  I  might  be  able  to  learn. 
You  see,  I  never  was  like  other  people.  Mother  was  the  only 
one  that  didn't  take  me  for  an  innocent.  She  used  to  talk 
big  things  about  me,  and  the  rest  used  to  laugh  at  her.     She 


JOSEPH  JASPER.  353 

gave  me  her  large  Testament  when  she  was  dying,  but,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  Ann,  I  should  never  have  been  able  to  read  it 
well  enough  to  understand  it.  And  now  Ann  tells  me  I'm  a 
heathen  and  worship  my  fiddle,  because  I  don't  go  to  chapel 
with  her  ;  but  it  do  seem  such  a  waste  of  good  time.  I'll  go  to 
church,  though,  miss,  if  you  tell  me  it's  the  right  thing  to  do  ; 
only  it's  hard  to  work  all  the  week,  and  be  weary  all  the  Sun- 
day. I  should  only  be  longing  for  my  fiddle  all  the  time.  You 
don't  think,  miss,  that  a  great  person  like  God  cares  whether 
we  pray  to  him  in  a  room  or  in  a  church  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't,"  answered  Mary.  "  For  my  own  part,  I  find 
I  can  pray  best  at  home." 

"So  can  I,"  said  Joseph,  with  solemn  fervor.  "Indeed, 
miss,  I  can't  pray  at  all  sometimes  till  I  get  my  fiddle  under 
my  chin,  and  then  it  says  the  prayers  for  me  till  I  grow  able  to 
pray  myself.  And  sometimes,  when  I  seem  to  have  got  to  the 
outside  of  prayer,  and  my  soul  is  hungrier  than  ever,  only  I 
can't  tell  what  I  want,  all  at  once  I'm  at  my  fiddle  again,  and 
it's  praying  for  me.  And  then  sometimes  it  seems  as  if  I  lost 
myself  altogether,  and  God  took  me,  for  I'm  nowhere  and 
everywhere  all  at  once." 

Mary  thought  of' the  "groanings  that  can  not  be  uttered." 
Perhaps  that  is  just  what  music  is  meant  for — to  say  the 
things  that  have  no  shape,  therefore  can  have  no  words,  yet 
are  intensely  alive — the  unembodied  children  of  thought,  the 
eternal  child.  Certainly  the  musician  can  groan  the  better 
with  the  aid  of  his  violin.  Surely  this  man's  instrument  was 
the  gift  of  God  to  him.  All  God's  gifts  are  a  giving  of  him- 
self. The  Spirit  can  better  dwell  in  a  violin  than  in  an  ark 
or  in  the  mightiest  of  temples. 

But  there  was  another  side  to  the  thing,  and  Mary  felt 
bound  to  present  it. 

"But,  you  know,  Mr.  Jasper,"  she  said,  "when  many  vio- 
lins play  together,  each  taking  a  part  in  relation  to  all  the  rest, 
a  much  grander  music  is  the  result  than  any  single  instrument 
could  produce." 

"I've  heard  tell  of  such  things,-  miss,  but  I've  never  heard 
them." 


354  MART  MARSTOK 

He  had  never  been  to  concert  or  oratorio,  any  more  than 
the  play. 

"  Then  yon  shall  hear  them/'  said  Mary,  her  heart  filling 
with  delight  at  the  thought.  " — But  what  if  there  should  be 
some  way  in  which  the  prayers  of  all  souls  may  blend  like 
many  violins  ?  We  are  all  brothers  and  sisters,  you  know — 
and  what  if  the  gathering  together  in  church  be  one  way  of 
making  up  a  concert  of  souls  ? — Imagine  one  mighty  prayer, 
made  up  of  all  the  desires  of  all  the  hearts  God  ever  made, 
breaking  like  a  huge  wave  against  the  foot  of  his  throne  ! " 

"There  would  be  some  force  in  a  wave  like  that,  miss  !" 
said  Joseph.  "But  answer  me  one  question:  Ain't  it  Christ 
that  teaches  men  to  pray  ?  " 

"Surely,"  answered  Mary.  "He  taught  them  with  his 
mouth  when  he  was  on  the  earth ;  and  now  he  teaches  them 
with  his  mind." 

"Then,  miss,  I  will  tell  you  why  it  seems  to  me  that 
churches  can't  be  the  places  to  tune  the  fiddles  for  that  kind 
of  consort — and  that's  just  why  I  more  than  don't  care  to  go 
into  one  of  them  :  I  never  heard  a  sermon  that  didn't  seem  to 
be  taking  my  Christ  from  me,  and  burying  him  where  I  should 
never  find  him  any  more.  For  the  somebody  the  clergy  talk 
about  is  not  only  nowise  like  my  Christ,  but  nowise  like  a  live 
man  at  all.  It  always  seemed  to  me  more  like  a  guy  they  had 
dressed  up  and  called  by  his  name  than  the  man  I  read  about 
in  my  mother's  big  Testament." 

"  How  my  father  would  have  delighted  in  this  man  ! "  said 
Mary  to  herself. 

"You  see,  miss,"  Jasper  resumed,  "I  can't  help  knowing 
something  about  these  matters,  because  I  was  brought  up  in 
it  all,  my  father  being  a  local  preacher,  and  a  very  good  man. 
Perhaps,  if  I  had  been  as  clever  as  Sister  Ann,  I  might  be  think- 
ing now  just  as  she  does ;  but  it  seems  to  me  a  man  that  is 
born  stupid  has  much  to  be  thankful  for  :  he  can't  take  in 
things  before  his  heart's  ready  for  believing  them,  and  so  they 
don't  get  spoiled,  like  a  child's  book  before  he  is  able  to  read 
it.  All  that  I  heard  when  I  went  with  my  father  to  his  preach- 
ings was  to  me  no  more  than  one  of  the  chapters  full  of  names 


JOSEPH  JA8PEE.  855 

in  the  Book  of  Chronicles — though  I  do  remember  once  hear- 
ing a  Wesleyan  clergyman  say  that  he  had  got  great  spiritual 
benefit  from  those  chapters.  I  wasn't  even  frightened  at  the 
awful  things  my  father  said  about  hell,  and  the  certainty  of 
our  going  there  if  we  didn't  lay  hold  upon  the  Saviour ;  for, 
all  the  time,  he  showed  but  such  a  ghost  or  cloud  of  a  man 
that  he  called  the  Saviour  as  it  wasn't  possible  to  lay  hold 
upon.  Not  that  I  reasoned  about  it  that  way  then ;  I  only 
felt  no  interest  in  the  affair  ;  and  my  conscience  said  nothing 
about  it.  But  after  my  father  and  mother  were  gone,  and  I 
was  at  work  away  from  all  my  old  friends — well,  I  needn't 
trouble  you  with  what  it  was  that  set  me  a-thinking — it  was 
only  a  greafc  disappointment,  such  as  I  suppose  most  young  fel- 
lows have  to  go  through — I  shouldn't  wonder,"  he  added  with 
a  smile,  "if  that  was  what  you  ladies  are  sent  into  this  world 
for — to  take  the  conceit  out  of  the  likes  of  us,  and  give  us 
something  to  think  about.  What  came  of  it  was,  that  I  began 
to  read  my  mother's  big  Testament  in  earnest,  and  then  my 
conscience  began  to  speak.  Here  was  a  man  that  said  he  was 
God's  son,  and  sent  by  him  to  look  after  us,  and  we  must  do 
what  he  told  us  or  we  should  never  be  able  to  see  our  Father 
in  heaven  !  That's  what  I  made  out  of  it,  miss.  And  my  con- 
science said  to  me,  that  I  must  do  as  he  said,  seeing  he  had 
taken  all  that  trouble,  and  come  down  to  look  after  us.  If  he 
spoke  the  truth,  and  nobody  could  listen  to  him  without  being 
sure  of  that,  there  was  nothing  left  but  just  to  do  the  thing  he 
said.  So  I  set  about  getting  a  hold  of  anything  he  did  say, 
and  trying  to  do  it.  And  then  it  was  that  I  first  began  to  be 
able  to  play  on  the  fiddle,  though  I  had  been  muddling  away 
at  it  for  a  long  time  before.  I  knew  I  could  play  then,  because 
I  understood  what  it  said  to  me,  and  got  help  out  of  it.  I  don't 
really  mean  that,  you  know,  miss  ;  for  I  know  well  enough 
that  the  fiddle  in  itself  is  nothing,  and  nothing  is  anything 
but  the  way  God  takes  to  teach  us.  And  that's  how  I  came  to 
know  you,  miss." 

"  How  do  you  mean  that  ?"  asked  Mary. 

"I  used  to  be  that  frightened  of  Sister  Ann  that,  after  I 
came  to  London,  I  wouldn't  have  gone  near  her,  but  that  I 


356  MARY  MARST02T. 

thought  Jesus  Christ  would  have  me  go ;  and,  if  I  hadn't  gone 
to  see  her,  I  should  never  have  seen  you.  When  I  went  to  see 
her,  I  took  my  fiddle  with  me  to  take  care  of  me  ;  and,  when 
she  would  be  going  on  at  me,  I  would  just  give  my  fiddle  a 
squeeze  under  my  arm,  and  that  gave  me  patience." 

"  But  we  heard  you  playing  to  her,  you  know." 

"  That  was  because  I  always  forgot  myself  while  she  was 
talking.  The  first  time,  I  remember,  it  was  from  misery — 
what  she  was  saying  sounded  so  wicked,  making  God  out  not 
fit  for  any  honest  man  to  believe  in.  I  began  to  play  without 
knowing  it,  and  it  couldn't  have  been  very  loud,  for  she  went 
on  about  the  devil  picking  up  the  good  seed  sown  in  the  heart. 
Off  I  went  into  that,  and  there  I  saw  no  end  of  birds  with  long 
necks  and  short  legs  gobbling  up  the  corn.  But,  a  little  way 
off,  there  was  the  long  beautiful  stalks  growing  strong  and 
high,  waving  in  God's  wind ;  and  the  birds  did  not  go  near 
them." 

Mary  drew  a  long  breath,  and  said  to  herself  : 

"The  man  is  a  poet  !" — "You're  not  afraid  of  your  sister 
now  ?  "  she  said  to  him. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  he  answered.  "  Since  I  knew  you,  I  feel  as 
if  we  had  in  a  sort  of  a  way  changed  places,  and  she  was  a  little 
girl  that  must  be  humored  and  made  the  best  of.  When  she 
scolds,  I  laugh,  and  try  to  make  a  bit  of  fun  with  her.  But 
she's  always  so  sure  she's  right,  that  you  wonder  how  the  world 
got  made  before  she  was  up." 

They  parted  with  the  understanding  that,  when  he  came 
next,  she  should  give  him  his  first  lesson  in  reading  music. 
With  herself  Mary  made  merry  at  the  idea  of  teaching  the  man 
of  genius  his  letters. 

But,  when  once,  through  trying  to  play  with  her  one  of  his 
own  pieces  which  she  had  learned  from  hearing  him  play  it,  he 
had  discovered  how  imperative  it  was  to  keep  good  time,  he 
set  himself  to  the  task  with  a  determination  that  would  have 
made  anything  of  him  that  he  was  only  half  as  fit  to  become  as 
a  musician. 

When,  however,  in  a  short  time,  he  was  able  to  learn  from 
notes,  he  grew  so  delighted  with  some  of  the  music  Mary  got 


THE  SAPPHIRE.  357 

for  Mm,  entering  into  every  nicety  of  severest  law,  and  finding 
therein  a  better  liberty  than  that  of  improvisation,  that  he 
ceased  for  long  to  play  anything  of  his  own,  and  Mary  became 
mortally  afraid  lest,  in  developing  the  performer,  she  had  ru- 
ined the  composer. 

"How  can  I  go  playing  such  loose,  skinny  things,"  he 
would  say,  "when  here  are  such  perfect  shapes  all  ready  to  my 
hand!" 

But  Mary  said  to  herself  that,  if  these  were  shapes,  his  were 
odors. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE  SAPPHIEE. 

Oiste  morning,  as  Mary  sat  at  her  piano,  Mewks  was  shown 
into  the  room.  He  brought  the  request  from  his  master  that 
she  would  go  to  him  ;  he  wanted  particularly  to  see  her.  She 
did  not  much  like  it,  neither  did  she  hesitate. 

She  was  shown  into  the  room  Mr.  Redmain  called  his  study, 
which  communicated  by  a  dressing-room  with  his  bedroom. 
He  was  seated,  evidently  waiting  for  her. 

"Ah,  Miss  Marston  !"  he  said;  "I  have  a  piece  of  good 
news  for  you — so  good  that  I  thought  I  should  like  to  give  it 
you  myself." 

"You  are  very  kind,  sir,"  Mary  answered. 

"  There  ! "  he  went  on,  holding  out  what  she  saw  at  once 
was  the  lost  ring. 

"  I  am  so  glad ! "  she  said,  and  took  it  in  her  hand. 
"  Where  was  it  found  ?  " 

"  There's  the  point ! "  he  returned.  "  That  is  just  why  I 
sent  for  you  !  Can  you  suggest  any  explanation  of  the  fact 
that  it  was  found,  after  all,  in  a  corner  of  my  wife's  jewel-box? 
Who  searched  the  box  last  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir." 

"  Did  you  search  it  ?  " 


358  MARY  MARSTOK 

"No,  sir.  I  offered  to  help  Mrs.  Eedmainto  look  for  the 
ring,  hut  she  said  it  was  no  use.     Who  found  it,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  who  found  it,  if  you  will  tell  me  who  put 
it  there." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  sir.  It  must  have  been 
there  all  the  time." 

"  That's  the  point  again  !  Mrs.  Kedmain  swears  it  was  not, 
and  could  not  have  been,  there  when  she  looked  for  it.  It  is 
not  like  a  small  thing,  you  see.  There  is  something  mysterious 
about  it." 

He  looked  hard  at  Mary. 

Now,  Mary  had  very  much  admired  the  ring,  as  any  one 
must  who  had  an  eye  for  stones  ;  and  had  often  looked  at  it — 
into  the  heart  of  it — almost  loving  it ;  and  while  they  were 
talking  now,  she  kept  gazing  at  it.  When  Mr.  Redmain  ended, 
she  stood  silent.  In  her  silence,  her  attention  concentrated  it- 
self upon  the  sapphire.  She  stood  long,  looking  closely  at  it, 
moving  it  about  a  little,  and  changing  the  direction  of  the 
light ;  and,  while  her  gaze  was  on  the  ring,  Mr.  Eedmain's  gaze 
was  on  her,  watching  her  with  equal  attention.  At  last,  with 
a  sigh,  as  if  she  waked  from  a  reverie,  she  laid  the  ring  on  the 
table.     But  Mr.  Redmain  still  stared  in  her  face. 

"Now  what  is  it  you've  got  in  your  head  ?"  he  said  at  last. 
"I  have  been  watching  you  think  for  three  minutes  and  a  half, 
I  do  believe.     Come,  out  with  it !  " 

"Hardly  think,  sir,"  answered  Mary.  "I  was  only  plagu- 
ing myself  between  my  recollection  of  the  stone  and  the  actual 
look  of  it.  It  is  so  annoying  to  find  what  seemed  a  clear  rec- 
ollection prove  a  deceitful  one  !  It  may  appear  a  presumptu- 
ous thing  to  say,  but  my  recollection  seems  of  a  finer  color." 

While  she  spoke,  she  had  again  taken  the  ring,  and  was 
looking  at  it.     Mr.  Redmain  snatched  it  from  her  hand. 

"The  devil !  "  he  cried.  "You  haven't  the  face  to  hint 
that  the  stone  has  been  changed  ?  " 

Mary  laughed. 

"  Such  a  thing  never  came  into  my  head,  sir  ;  but  now  that 
you  have  put  it  there,  I  could  almost  believe  it." 

"  Go  along  with  jrou  ! "  he  cried,  casting  at  her  a  strange 


THE  SAPPHIRE.  359 

look,  which,  she  could  not  understand,  and  the  same  moment 
pulling  the  bell  hard. 

That  done,  he  began  to  examine  the  ring  intently,  as  Mary- 
had  been  doing;  and  did  not  speak  a  word.     Mewks  came. 

"Show  Miss  Marston  out,"  said  his  master  ;  "  and  tell  my 
coachman  to  bring  the  hansom  round  directly." 

"  For  Miss  Marston  ?  "  inquired  Mewks,  who  had  learned 
not  a  little  cunning  in  the  service. 

"  No  !  "  roared  Mr.  Eedmain  ;  and  Mewks  darted  from  the 
room,  followed  more  leisurely  by  Mary. 

"  I  don't  know  what's  come  to  master  !  "  ventured  Mewks, 
as  he  led  the  way  down  the  stair. 

But  Mary  took  no  notice,  and  left  the  house. 

For  about  a  week  she  heard  nothing. 

In  the  meantime  Mr. Eedmain  had  been  prosecuting  certain 
inquiries  he  had  some  time  ago  begun,  and  another  quite  new 
one  besides.  He  was  acquainted  with  many  people  of  many 
different  sorts,  and  had  been  to  jewelers  and  pawnbrokers, 
gamblers  and  lodging-house  keepers,  and  had  learned  some 
things  to  his  purpose. 

Once  more  Mary  received  from  him  a  summons,  and  once 
more,  considerably  against  her  liking,  obeyed.  She  was  less 
disinclined  to  go  this  time,  however,  for  she  felt  not  a  little 
curious  about  the  ring. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  back  to  the  house,"  he  said,  abruptly, 
the  moment  she  entered  his  room. 

For  such  a  request  Mary  was  not  prepared.  Even  since 
the  ring  was  found,  so  long  a  time  had  passed  that  she  never 
expected  to  hear  from  the  house  again.  ■  But  Tom  was  now  so 
much  better,  and  Letty  so  much  like  her  former  self,  that,  if  Mrs. 
Eedmain  had  asked  her,  she  might  perhaps  have  consented. 

"Mr.  Eedmain,"  she  answered,  "you  must  see  that  I  can 
not  do  so  at  your  desire." 

"  Oh,  rubbish  !  humbug  ! "  he  returned,  with  annoyance. 
"  Don't  fancy  I  am  asking  you  to  go  fiddle-faddling  about  my 
wife  again  :  I  don't  see  how  you  can  do  that,  after  the  way  she 
has  used  you  !  But  I  have  reasons  for  wanting  to  have  you 
within  call.     Go  to  Mrs.  Perkin.     I  won't  take  a  refusal." 


360  MARY  MARSTOK 

"I  can  not  do  it,  Mr.  Eedmain,"  said  Mary;  "the  thing 
is  impossible."    And  she  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Stop,  stop  ! "  cried  Mr.  Eedmain,  and  jumped  from  his 
chair  to  prevent  her. 

He  would  not  have  succeeded  had  not  Mewks  met  her  in 
the  doorway  full  in  the  face.  She  had  to  draw  back  to  avoid 
him,  and  the  man,  perceiving  at  once  how  things  were,  closed 
the  door  the  moment  he  entered,  and  stood  with  his  back 
against  it. 

"He's  in  the  drawing-room,  sir,"  said  Mewks. 

A  scarcely  perceptible  sign  of  question  was  made  by  the 
master,  and  answered  in  kind  by  the  man. 

"  Show  him  here  directly,"  said  Mr.  Eedmain.  Then  turn- 
ing to  Mary,  "  Go  out  that  way,  Miss  Marston,  if  you  will  go," 
he  said,  and  pointed  to  the  dressing-room. 

Mary,  without  a  suspicion,  obeyed ;  but,  just  as  she  dis- 
covered that  the  door  into  the  bedroom  beyond  was  locked,  she 
heard  the  door  behind  her  locked  also. ,  She  turned,  and 
knocked. 

"Stay  where  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Eedmain,  in  a  low  but 
imperative  voice.  "I  can  not  let  you  out  till  this  gentleman 
is  gone.  You  must  hear  what  passes  :  I  want  you  for  a  wit- 
ness." 

Bewildered  and  annoyed,  Mary  stood  motionless  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  and  presently  heard  a  man,  whose  voice  seemed 
not  quite  strange  to  her,  greet  Mr.  Eedmain  like  an  old  friend. 
The  latter  made  a  slight  apology  for  having  sent  for  him  to  his 
study — claiming  the  privilege,  he  said,  of  an  invalid,  who  could 
not  for  a  time  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him  either  at  the 
club  or  at  his  wife's  parties.  The  visitor  answered  agreeably, 
with  a  touch  of  merriment  that  seemed  to  indicate  a  soul  at 
ease  with  itself  and  with  the  world. 

But  here  Mary  all  at  once  came  to  herself,  and  was  aware 
that  she  was  in  quite  a  false  position.  She  withdrew  therefore 
to  the  farthest  corner,  sat  down,  closed  her  ears  with  the  palms 
of  her  hands,  and  waited. 

She  had  sat  thus  for  a  long  time,  not  weary,  but  occupied 
with  such  thoughts  as  could  hardly  for  a  century  or  two  cross 


THE  SAPPHIRE.  361 

the  horizon  line  of  such  a  soul  as  Mr.  Bedmain's,  even  if  he 
were  at  once  to  repent,  when  she  heard  a  loud  voice  calling  her 
name  from  a  distance.  She  raised  her  head,  and  saw  the  white, 
skin-drawn  face  of  Mr.  Eedmain  grinning  at  her  from  the  open 
door.  When  he  spoke  again,  his  words  sounded  like  thunder, 
for  she  had  removed  her  hands  from  her  ears. 

"I  fancy  you've  had  a  dose  of  it !"  he  said. 

As  he  spoke,  she  rose  to  her  feet,  her  countenance  illumined 
both  with  righteous  anger  and  the  tender  shine  of  prayer.  Her 
look  went  to  what  he  had  of  a  heart,  and  the  slightest  possible 
color  rose  to  his  face. 

"  Gone  a  step  too  far,  damn  it ! "  he  murmured  to  himself. 
"  There's  no  knowing  one  woman  by  another  ! " 

"I  see  !"  he  said;  "it's  been  a  trifle  too  much  for  you, 
and  I  don't  wonder  !  You  needn't  believe  a  word  I  said  about 
myself.     It  was  all  hum  to  make  the  villain  show  his  game." 

"I 'have  not  heard  a  word,  Mr.  Eedmain,"  she  said  with 
indignation. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  trouble  yourself! "he  returned.  "I 
meant  you  to  hear  it  all.  "What  did  I  put  you  there  for,  but 
to  get  your  oath  to  what  I  drew  from  the  fellow  ?  A  fine  thing 
if  your  pretended  scpieamishness  ruin  my  plot !  What  do  you 
think  of  yourself,  hey  ? — But  I  don't  believe  it." 

He  looked  at  her  keenly,  expecting  a  response,  but  Mary 
made  him  none.  For  some  moments  he  regarded  her  curi- 
ously, then  turned  away  into  the  study,  saying  : 

"  Come  along.  By  Jove  !  I'm  ashamed  to  say  it,  but  I  half 
begin  to  believe  in  you.  I  did  think  I  was  past  being  taken 
in,  but  it  seems  possible  for  once  again.  Of  course,  you  will 
return  to  Mrs.  Eedmain  now  that  all  is  cleared  up." 

"It  is  impossible,"  Mary  answered.  "I  can  not  live  in 
a  house  where  the  lady  mistrusts  and  the  gentleman  insults 
me." 

She  left  the  room,  and  Mr.  Eedmain  did  not  try  to  prevent 
her.  As  she  left  the  house  she  burst  into  tears  ;  and  the  fact 
Mewks  carried  to  his  master. 

The  man  was  the  more  careful  to  report  everything  about 
Mary,  that  there  was  one  in  the  house  of  whom  he  never  reported 

16 


362  MARY  HARSTOK 

anything,  but  to  whom,  on  the  contrary,  he  told  everything  he 
thought  she  would  care  to  know.  Till  Sejoia  came,  he  had  been 
conventionally  faithful — faithful  with  the  faith  of  a  lackey, 
that  is — but  she  had  found  no  difficulty  in  making  of  him,  in 
respect  of  her,  a  spy  upon  his  master. 

I  will  now  relate  what  passed  while  Mary  sat  deaf  in  the 
corner. 

Mr.  Eedmain  asked  his  visitor  what  he  would  have,  as  if, 
although  it  was  quite  early,  he  must,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
stand  in  need  of  refreshment.  He  made  choice  of  brandy  and 
soda-water,  and  the  bell  was  rung.  A  good  deal  of  conversa- 
tion followed  about  a  disputed  point  in  a  late  game  of  cards  at 
one  of  the  clubs. 

The  talk  then  veered  in  another  direction — that  of  personal 
adventure,  so  guided  by  Mr.  Eedmain.  He  told  extravagant 
stories  about  himself  and  his  doings,  in  particular  various  ruses 
by  which  he  had  contrived  to  lay  his  hands  on  money.  And 
whatever  he  told,  his  guest  capped,  narrating  trick  upon  trick 
to  which  on  different  occasions  he  had  had  recourse.  At  all 
of  them  Mr.  Eedmain  laughed  heartily,  and  applauded  their 
cleverness  extravagantly,  though  some  of  them  were  downright 
swindling. 

At  last  Mr.  Eedmain  told  how  he  had  once  got  money  out 
of  a  lady.  I  do  not  believe  there  was  a  word  of  truth  in  it. 
But  it  was  capped  by  the  other  with  a  narrative  that  seemed 
specially  pleasing  to  the  listener.  In  the  midst  of  a  burst  of 
laughter,  he  rose  and  rang  the  bell.  Count  Galofta  thought  it 
was  to  order  something  more  in  the  way  of  "refreshment," 
and  was  not  a  little  surprised  when  he  heard  his  host  desire  the 
man  to  request  the  favor  of  Miss  Yolland's  presence.  But  the 
Count  had  not  studied  non-expression  in  vain,  and  had  brought 
it  to  a  degree  of  perfection  not  easily  disturbed.  Casting  a 
glance  at  him  as  he  gave  the  message,  Mr.  Eedmain  could  read 
nothing  ;  but  this  was  in  itself  suspicious  to  him — and  justly, 
for  the  man  ought  to  have  been  surprised  at  such  a  close  to  the 
conversation  they  had  been  having. 

Sepia  had  been  told  that  Galofta  was  in  the  study,  and 
therefore  received  the  summons  thither  —  a  thing  that  had 


TEE  SAPPEIBE.  363 

never  happened  before — with  the  greater  alarm.  She  made, 
consequently,  what  preparation  she  could  against  surprise. 
Thoroughly  capable  of  managing  her  features,  her  anxiety  was 
sufficient  nevertheless  to  deprive  her  of  power  over  her  com- 
plexion, and  she  entered  the  room  with  the  pallor  peculiar  to 
the  dark-skinned.  Having  greeted  the  Count  with  the  greatest 
composure,  she  turned  to  Mr.  Eedmain  with  question  in  her  eyes. 

"Count  Galofta,"  said  Mr.  Eedmain  in  reply,  "has  just 
been  telling  me  a  curious  story  of  how  a  certain  rascal  got  pos- 
session of  a  valuable  jewel  from  a  lady  with  whom  he  pre- 
tended to  be  in  love,  and  I  thought  the  opportunity  a  good 
one  for  showing  you  a  strange  discovery  I  have  made  with 
regard  to  the  sapphire  Mrs.  Eedmain  missed  for  so  long.  Very 
odd  tricks  are  played  with  gems — such  gems,  that  is,  as  are  of 
value  enough  to  make  it  worth  a  rogue's  while. " 

So  saying,  he  took  the  ring  from  one  drawer,  and  from 
another  a  bottle,  from  which  he  poured  something  into  a  crys- 
tal cup.  Then  he  took  a  file,  and,  looking  at  Galofta,  in  whose 
well-drilled  features  he  believed  he  read  something  that  was 
not  mere  curiosity,  said,  "I  am  going  to  show  you  something 
very  curious,"  and  began  to  file  asunder  that  part  of  the  ring 
which  immediately  clasped  the  sapphire,  the  setting  of  which 
was  open. 

"What  a  pity!"  cried  Sepia;  "you  are  destroying  the 
ring  !    What  will  Cousin  Hesper  say  ?  " 

Mr.  Eedmain  filed  away,  heedless  ;  then  with  the  help  of  a 
pair  of  pincers  freed  the  stone,  and  held  it  up  in  his  hand. 

"You  see  this  ? "  he  said. 

"  A  splendid  sapphire  !  "  answered  Count  Galofta,  taking  it 
in  his  fingers,  but,  as  Mr.  Eedmain  saw,  not  looking  at  it 
closely. 

"  I  have  always  heard  it  called  a  splendid  stone,"  said  Sepia, 
whose  complexion,  though  not  her  features,  passed  through 
several  changes  while  all  this  was  going  on  :  she  was  anxious. 

Nor  did  her  inquisitor  fail  to  surprise  the  uneasy  glances 
she  threw,  furtively  though  involuntarily,  in  the  face  of  the 
Count — who  never  once  looked  in  hers  :  tolerably  sure  of  him- 
self, he  was  not  sure  of  her. 


364  MARY  HARSTOK 

"That  ring,  when  I  bought  it — the  stone  of  it,"  said  Mr. 
Eedmain,  "was  a  star  sapphire,  and  worth  seven  hundred 
pounds  ;  now,  the  whole  affair  is  worth  about  ten. " 

As  he  spoke,  he  threw  the  stone  into  the  cup,  let  it  lie  a  few 
moments,  and  took  it  out  again  ;  when,  almost  with  a  touch, 
he  divided  it  in  two,  the  one  a  mere  scale. 

"  There  !  "  he  said,  holding  out  the  thin  part  on  the  tip  of 
a  finger,  "that  is  a  slice  of  sapphire  ;  and  there  !  "  holding  out 
the  rest  of  the  seeming  stone,  "  that  is  glass." 

"  What  a  shame  !  "  cried  Sepia. 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  Count,  "  you  will  prosecute  the  jew- 
eler." 

"I  will  not  prosecute  the  jeweler,"  answered  Mr.  Red- 
main  ;  "  but  I  have  taken  some  trouble  to  find  out  who  changed 
the  stones." 

With  that  he  threw  both  the  bits  of  blue  into  a  drawer,  and 
the  contents  of  the  cup  into  the  fire.  A  great  flame  flew  up 
the  chimney,  and,  as  if  struck  at  the  sight  of  it,  he  stood 
gazing  for  a  moment  after  it  had  vanished. 

When  he  turned,  the  Count  was  gone,  as  he  had  expected, 
and  Sepia  stood  with  eyes  full  of  anger  and  fear.  Her  face 
was  set  and  colorless,  and  strange  to  look  upon. 

"  Very  odd — ain't  it  ?"  said  Mr.  Redmain,  and,  opening  the 
door  of  his  dressing-room,  called  out  : 

"  Miss  Marston  !  " 

When  he  turned,  Sepia  too  was  gone. 

I  would  not  have  my  reader  take  Sepia  for  an  accomplice  in 
the  robbery.  Even  Mr.  Redmain  did  not  believe  that  :  she 
was  much  too  prudent  !  His  idea  was,,  that  she  had  been 
wearing  the  ring  —  Hesper  did  not  mind  what  she  wore  of 
hers — and  that  (I  need  not  give  his  conjecture  in  detail),  with 
or  without  her  knowledge,  the  fellow  had  got  hold  of  it  and 
carried  it  away,  then  brought  it  back,  treating  the  thing  as  a 
joke,  when  she  was  only  too  glad  to  restore  it  to  the  jewel-case, 
hoping  the  loss  of  it  would  then  pass  for  an  oversight  on  the 
part  of  Hesper.  If  he  was  right  in  this  theory  of  the  affair, 
then  the  Count  had  certainly  a  hold  upon  her,  and  she  dared 
not  or  would  not  expose  him  ! 


THE  SAPPHIRE.  365 

He  had  before  discovered  that,  about  the  time  when  the 
ring  disappeared,  the  Count  had  had  losses,  and  was  supposed 
unable  to  meet  them,  but  had  suddenly  showed  himself  again 
"  flush  of  money,"  and  from  that  time  had  had  an  extraordi- 
nary run  of  luck. 

When  he  went  out  of  the  door  of  Mr.  Eedmain's  study,  he 
vanished  from  the  house  and  from  London.  Turning  the  first 
corner  he  came  to,  and  the  next"  and  the  next,  he  stepped  into 
a  mews,  the  court  of  which  seemed  empty,  and  slipped  behind 
the  gate.  He  wore  a  new  hat,  and  was  clean  shaved  except  his 
upper  lip.  Presently  a  man  came  out  of  the  mews  in  a  Scotch 
cap  and  a  full  beard. 

What  had  become  of  him  Mr.  Eedmain  did  not  care.  He 
had  no  desire  to  punish  him.  It  was  enough  he  had  found 
him  out,  proved  his  suspicion  correct,  and  obtained  evidence 
against  Sepia.  He  did  not  at  once  make  up  his  mind  how  he 
would  act  on  this  last ;  while  he  lived,  it  did  not  matter  so 
much  ;  and  he  had  besides  a  certain  pleasure  in  watching  his 
victim.  But  Hesper,  free,  rich,  and  beautiful,  and  far  from 
wise,  with  Sepia  for  counselor,  was  not  an  idea  to  be  contem- 
plated with  equanimity.  Still  he  shrank  from  the  outcry  and 
scandal  of  sending  her  away  ;  for  certainly  his  wife,  if  it  were 
but  to  oppose  him,  would  refuse  to  believe  a  word  against  her 
cousin. 

For  the  present,  therefore,  the  thing  seemed  to  blow  over. 
Mr.  Redmain,  who  had  pleasure  in  behaving  handsomely  so 
far  as  money  was  concerned,  bought  his  wife  the  best  sapphire 
he  could  find,  and,  for  once,  really  pleased  her. 

But  Sepia  knew  that  Mr.  Redmain  had  now  to  himself  jus- 
tified his  dislike  of  her ;  and,  as  he  said  nothing,  she  was  the 
more  certain  he  meant  something.  She  lived,  therefore,  in 
constant  dread  of  his  sudden  vengeance,  against  which  she 
could  take  no  precaution,  for  she  had  not  even  a  conjecture  as 
to  what  form  it  might  assume.  From  that  hour  she  was  never 
at  peace  in  his  presence,  and  hardly  out  of  it  ;  from  every  pos- 
sible tete-a-tete  with  him  she  fled  as  from  a  judgment. 

Nor  was  it  a  small  addition  to  her  misery  that  she  imagined 
Mary  cognizant  of  Mr.  Redmain's  opinion  and  intention  with 


366  MART  MARSTOK 

regard  to  her,  and  holding  the  worst  possible  opinion  of  her. 
For,  whatever  had  passed  first  between  the  Count  and  Mr.  Red- 
main,  she  did  not  doubt  Mary  had  heard,  and  was  prepared  to 
bring  against  her  when  the  determined  moment  should  arrive. 
How  much  the  Count  might  or  might  not  have  said,  she  could 
not  tell ;  but,  seeing  their  common  enemy  had  permitted  him 
to  escape,  she  more  than  dreaded  he  had  sold  her  secret  for  his 
own  impunity,  and  had  laid  upon  her  a  burden  of  lies  as  well. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

KEPAEATIOIST. 

With  all  Mr.  Redmain's  faults,  there  was  a  certain  love  of 
justice  in  the  man ;  only,  as  is  the  case  with  most  of  us,  it 
had  ten  times  the  reference  to  the  action  of  other  people  that 
it  had  to  his  own  :  I  mean,  he  made  far  greater  demand  for 
justice  upon  other  people  than  upon  himself ;  and  was  much 
more  indignant  at  any  shortcoming  of  theirs  which  crossed  any 
desire  or  purpose  of  his  than  he  was  anxious  in  his  own  per- 
son to  fulfill  justice  when  that  fulfillment  in  its  turn  would 
cross  any  wish  he  cherished.  Badly  as  he  had  himself  behaved 
to  Mary,  he  was  now  furious  with  his  wife  for  having  treated 
her  so  heartlessly  that  she  could  not  return  to  her  service  ;  for 
he  began  to  think  she  might  be  one  to  depend  upon,  and  to 
desire  her  alliance  in  the  matter  of  ousting  Sepia  from  the  con- 
fidence of  his  wife. 

However  indifferent  a  woman  may  be  to  the  opinion  of  her 
husband,  he  can  nevertheless  in  general  manage  to  make  her 
uncomfortable  enough  if  he  chooses  ;  and  Mr.  Redmain  did 
choose  now,  in  the  event  of  her  opposition  to  his  wishes  :  when 
he  set  himself  to  do  a  thing,  he  hated  defeat  even  more  than 
he  loved  success. 

The  moment  Mary  was  out  of  the  study,  he  walked  into 
his  wife's  boudoir,  and  shut  the  door  behind  him.     His  pres- 


REPARATION.  367 

•ence  there  was  enough  to  make  her  angry,  but  she  took  no 
notice  of  it. 

"I  understand,  Mrs.  Beclmain,"  he  began,  "that  you  wish 
to  bring  the  fate  of  Sodom  upon  the  house." 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  she  answered,  scarcely 
raising  her  eyes  from  her  novel — and  spoke  the  truth,  for  she 
knew  next  to  nothing  of  the  Bible,  while  the  Old  Testament 
was  all  the  literature  Mr.  Kedmain  was  "up  in." 

"  You  have  turned  out  of  it  the  only  just  person  in  it,  and 
we  shall  all  be  in  hell  soon  ! " 

"  How  dare  you  come  to  my  room  with  such  horrid  lan- 
guage ! " 

"You'll  hear  worse  before  long,  if  you  keep  on  at  this  rate. 
My  language  is  not  so  bad  as  your  actions.  If  you  don't  have 
that  girl  back,  and  in  double-quick  time,  too,  I  shall  know  how 
to  make  you  !  " 

"You  have  taught  me  to  believe  you  capable  of  anything." 

"You  shall  at  least  find  me  capable  of  a  good  deal.  Do 
you  imagine,  madam,  I  have  found  you  a  hair  worse  than  I 
expected  ? " 

"I  never  took  the  trouble  to  imagine  anything  about  you." 

"  Then  I  need  not  ask  you  whether  I  married  you  to  please 
you  or  to  please  myself  ?  " 

"  You  need  not.     You  can  best  answer  that  question  your- 
self." 
•  "  Then  we  understand  each  other." 

"We  do  not,  Mr.  Eedmain  ;  and,  if  this  occurs  again,  I 
shall  go  to  Durnmelling. " 

She  spoke  with  a  vague  idea  that  he  also  stood  in  some  awe 
of  the  father  and  mother  whose  dread,  however  well  she  hid  it, 
she  would  never,  while  she  lived,  succeed  in  shaking  off.  But 
to  the  husband  it  was  a  rare  delight  to  speak  with  conscious 
rectitude  in  the  moral  cbastisementof  his  wife.  He  burst  into 
a  loud  and  almost  merry  laugh. 

"Happy  they  will  be  to  see  you  there,  madam  !  Why,  you 
goose,  if  I  send  a  telegram  before  you,  they  won't  so  much  as 
open  the  door  to  you  !  They  know  better  which  side  their 
bread  is  buttered." 


368  MARY  MARSTOK 

Hesper  started  up  in  a  rage.     This  was  too  much — and  the . 
more  too  much,  that  she  believed  it  would  be  as  he  said. 

"Mr.  Redmain,  if  you  do  not  leave  the  room,  I  will." 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  he  cried,  in  a  tone  of  pretended  alarm.  His 
pleasure  was  great,  for  he  had  succeeded  in  stinging  the  im- 
penetrable. "  You  really  ought  to  consider  before  you  utter 
such  an  awful  threat !  I  will  go  myself  a  thousand  times 
rather  ! — But  will  you  not  feel  the  want  of  pocket-money  when 
you  come  to  pay  a  rough  cabman  ?  The  check  I  gave  you  yes- 
terday will  not  last  you  long/"' 

"The  money  is  my  own,  Mr.  Eedmain." 

"But  you  have  not  yet  opened  a  banking-account  in  your 
own  name." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  a  meaning,  Mr.  Redmain ;  but  I  am 
not  in  the  habit  of  using  cabs." 

"Then  you  had  better  get  into  the  habit;  for  I  swear  to 
you,  madam,  if  you  don't  fetch  that  girl  home  within  the 
week,  I  will,  next  Monday,  discharge  your  coachman,  and  send 
every  horse  in  the  stable  to  Tattersall's  !     Good  morning." 

She  had  no  doubt  he  would  do  as  he  said  ;  she  knew  Mr. 
Redmain  would  just  enjoy  selling  her  horses.  But  she  could 
not  at  once  give  in.  I  say  "could  not,"  because  hers  was  the 
weak  will  that  can  hardly  bring  itself  to  do  what  it  knows  it 
must,  and  is  continually  mistaken  for  the  strong  will  that  defies 
and  endures.  She  had  a  week  to  think  about  it,  and  she  would 
see  ! 

During  the  interval,  he  took  care  not  once  to  refer  to  his 
threat,  for  that  would  but  weaken  the  impression  of  it,  he  knew. 

On  the  Sunday,  after  service,  she  knocked  at  his  door,  and, 
being  admitted,  bade  him  good  morning,  but  with  no  very 
gracious  air — as,  indeed,  he  would  have  been  the  last  to  exj>ect. 

"We  have  had  a  sermon  on  the  forgiveness  of  injuries,  Mr. 
Redmain,"  she  said. 

"By  Jove!"  interrupted  her  husband,  "it  would  have 
been  more  to  the  purpose  if  I,  or  poor  Mary  Marston,  had  had 
it ;  for  I  swear  you  put  our  souls  in  peril !  " 

"The  ring  was  no  common  one,  Mr.  Redmain;  and  the 
young  woman  had,  by  leaving  the  house,  placed  herself  in  a 


REPARATION.  369 

false  position  :  every  one  suspected  her  as  much  as  I  did.  Be- 
sides, she  lost  her  temper,  and  talked  about  forgiving  me,  when 
I  was  in  despair  about  my  ring  ! " 

"  And  what,  pray,  was  your  foolish  ring  compared  to  the 
girl's  character  ?  " 

"A  foolish  ring,  indeed  ! — Yes,  it  was  foolish  to  let  you 
ever  have  the  right  to  give  it  me  !  But,  as  to  her  character, 
that  of  persons  in  her  position  is  in  constant  peril.  They  have 
to  lay  their  account  with  that,  and  must  get  used  to  it.  How 
was  I  to  know  ?    We  can  not  read  each  other's  hearts. " 

"Not  where  there  is  no  heart  in  the  reader." 

Hesper's  face  flushed,  but  she  did  her  best  not  to  lose  her 
temper.  Not  that  it  would  have  been  any  great  loss  if  she 
had,  for  there  is  as  much  difference  in  the  values  of  tempers  as 
in  those  who  lose  them.  She  said  nothing,  and  her  husband 
resumed : 

"  So  you  came  to  forgive  me  ?"  he  said. 

"And  Marston,"  she  answered. 

"Well,  I  will  accept  the  condescension — that  is,  if  the 
terms  of  it  are  to  my  mind." 

"I  will  make  no  terms.  Marston  may  return  when  she 
pleases. " 

"  You  must  write  and  ask  her." 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Eedmain.  It  would  hardly  be  suitable 
that  you  should  ask  her." 

"You  must  write  so  as  to  make  it  possible  to  accept  your 
offer." 

"I  am  not  deceitful,  Mr.  Eedmain." 

"You  are  not.     A  man  must  be  fair,  even  to  his  wife." 

"I  will  show  you  the  letter  I  write." 

"If  you  please." 

She  had  to  show  him  half  a  score  ere  he  was  satisfied,  de- 
claring he  would  do  it  himself,  if  she  could  not  make  a  better 
job  of  it. 

At  length  one  was  dispatched,  received,  and  answered : 
Mary  would  not  return.  She  had  lost  all  hope  of  being  of  any 
true  service  to  Mrs.  Eedmain,  and  she  knew  that,  with  Tom 
and  Letty,  she  was  really  of  use  for  the  present. 


370  MARY  MARSTOK 

Mrs.  Redmain  carried  the  letter,  with  ill-concealed  triumph, 
to  her  husband ;  nor  did  he  conceal  his  annoyance. 

"You  must  have  behaved  to  her  very  cruelly,"  he  said. 
"  But  you  have  done  your  best  now — short  of  a  Christian  apol- 
ogy, which  it  would  be  folly  to  demand  of  you.  '  I  fear  we 
have  seen  the  last  of  her." — "And  there  was  I,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  actually  beginning  to 
fancy  I  had  perhaps  thrown  salt  upon  the  tail  of  that  rare  bird, 
an  honest  woman  !  The  devil  has  had  quite  as  much  to  do 
with  my  history  as  with  my  character  !  Perhaps  that  will  be 
taken  into  the  account  one  day." 

But  Mary  lay  awake  at  night,  and  thought  of  many  things 
she  might  have  said  and  done  better  when  she  was  with  Hes- 
per,  and  would  gladly  have  given  herself  another  chance  ;  but 
she  could  no  longer  flatter  herself  she  would  ever  be  of  any  real 
good  to  her.  She  believed  there  was  more  hope  of  Mr.  Eed- 
main even.  For  had  she  not  once,  for  one  brief  moment,  seen 
him  look  a  trifle  ashamed  of  himself  ?  while  Hesper  was  and 
remained,  so  far  as  she  could  judge,  altogether  satisfied  with 
herself.  Equal  to  her  own  demands  upon  herself,  there  was 
nothing  in  her  to  begin  with — no  soil  to  work  upon. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

ANOTIEE    CHANGE. 

Eok  some  time  Tom  made  progress  toward  health,  and  was 
able  to  read  a  good  part  of  the  day.  Most  evenings  he  asked 
Joseph  to  play  to  him  for  a  while  ;  he  was  fond  of  music,  and 
fonder  still  of  criticism — upon  anything.  When  he  had  done 
with  Joseph,  or  when  he  did  not  want  him,  Mary  was  always 
ready  to  give  the  latter  a  lesson  ;  and,  had  he  been  a  less  gifted 
man  than  he  was,  he  could  not  have  failed  to  make  progress 
with  such  a  teacher. 

The  large-hearted,  delicate  - souled  woman  felt  nothing 
strange  in  the  presence  of  the  workingman,  but,  on  the  con- 


ANOTHER   CHANGE.  371 

trary,  was  comfortably  aware  of  a  being  like  her  own,  less 
privileged  but  more  gifted,  whose  nearness  was  strength.  And 
no  teacher,  not  to  say  no  woman,  could  have  failed  to  be 
pleased  at  the  thorough  painstaking  with  which  he  followed 
the  slightest  of  her  hints,  and  the  delight  his  flushed  face 
would  reveal  when  she  praised  the  success  he  had  achieved. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  began  to  write  some  of  the  things 
that  came  into  his  mind.  For  the  period  of  quiescence  as  to 
production,  which  followed  the  initiation  of  more  orderly  study, 
was,  after  all,  but  of  short  duration,  and  the  return  tide  of 
musical  utterance  was  stronger  than  ever.  Mary's  delight  was 
great  when  first  he  brought  her  one  of  his  compositions  very 
fairly  written  out — after  which  others  followed  with  a  rapidity 
that  astonished  her.  They  enabled  her  also  to  understand  the 
man  better  and  better  ;  for  to  have  a  thing  to  brood  over  which 
we  are  capable  of  understanding  must  be  more  to  us  than  even 
the  master's  playing  of  it.  She  could  not  be  sure  this  or  that 
was  correct,  according  to  the  sweet  inexorability  of  musical  or- 
dainment,  but  the  more  she  pondered  them,  the  more  she  felt 
that  the  man  was  original,  that  the  material  was  there,  and  the 
law  at  hand,  that  he  brought  his  music  fiom  the  only  bottom- 
less well  of  utterance,  the  truth,  namely,  by  which  alone  the 
soul  most  glorious  in  gladness,  or  any  other  the  stupidest  of 
souls,  can  live. 

To  the  first  he  brought  her  she  contrived  to  put  a  poor 
little  faulty  accompaniment ;  and  when  she  played  his  air  to 
him  so  accompanied,  his  delight  was  touching,  and  not  a  little 
amusing.  Plainly  he  thought  the  accompaniment  a  triumph 
of  human  faculty,  and  beyond  anything  he  could  ever  develop. 
Never  pupil  was  more  humble,  never  pupil  more  obedient ; 
thinking  nothing  of  himself  or  of  anything  he  had  done  or 
could  do,  his  path  was  open  to  the  swiftest  and  highest  growth. 
It  matters  little  where  a  man  may  be  at  this  moment ;  the 
point  is  whether  he  is  growing.  The  next  point  will  be, 
whether  he  is  growing  at  the  ratio  given  him.  The  key  to  the 
whole  thing  is  obedience,,  and  nothing  else. 

"What  the  gift  of  such  an  instructor  was  to  Joseph,  my 
reader  may  be  requested  to  imagine.     He  was  like  a  man  seated 


372  MART  MARSTON. 

on  the  grass  outside  the  heavenly  gate,  from  which,  slow-open- 
ing every  evening  as  the  sun  went  down,  came  an  angel  to 
teach,  and  teach,  until  he  too  should  be  fit  to  enter  in  :  an 
hour  would  arrive  when  she  would  no  longer  have  to  come  out 
to  him  where  he  sat.  Under  such  an  influence  all  that  was 
gentlest  and  sweetest  in  his  nature  might  well  develop  with 
rapidity,  and  every  accidental  roughness — and  in  him  there 
was  no  other — by  swift  degrees  vanish  from  both  speech  and 
manners.  The  angels  do  not  want  tailors  to  make  their  clothes  : 
their  habits  come  out  of  themselves.  But  we  are  often  too 
hard  upon  our  fellows  ;  for  many  of  those  in  the  higher  ranks 
of  life — no,  no,  I  mean  of  society — whose  insolence  wakens 
ours,  as  growl  wakes  growl  in  the  forest,  are  not  yet  so  far  re- 
moved from  the  savage — I  mean  in  their  personal  history — as 
some  in  the  lowest  ranks.  "When  a  nobleman  mistakes  the 
love  of  right  in  another  for  a  hatred  of  refinement,  he  can  not 
be  far  from  mistaking  insolence  for  good  manners.  Of  such  a 
nobility,  good  Lord,  deliver  us  from  all  envy  ! 

As  to  falling  in  love  with  a  lady  like  Mary,  such  a  thing 
was  as  far  from  Jasper's  consciousness  as  if  she  had  been  a 
duchess.  She  belonged  to  another  world  from  his,  a  world 
which  his  world  worshiped,  waiting.  He  might  miss  her  even 
to  death  ;  her  absence  might,  for  him,  darken  the  universe  as 
if  the  sun  had  withdrawn  his  brightness  ;  but  who  thinks  of 
falling  in  love  with  the  sun,  or  dreams  of  climbing  nearer  to 
his  radiance  ? 

The  day  will  one  day  come — or  what  of  the  long-promised 
kingdom  of  heaven  ? — when  a  woman,  instead  of  S]3ending 
anxious  thought  on  the  adornment  of  her  own  outward  person, 
will  seek  with  might  the  adornment  of  the  inward  soul  of 
another,  and  will  make  that  her  crown  of  rejoicing.  Nay,  are 
there  none  such  even  now  ?  The  day  will  come  when  a  man, 
rather  than  build  a  great  house  for  the  overflow  of  a  mighty 
hospitality,  will  give  himself,  in  the  personal  labor  of  outgoing 
love,  to  build  spiritual  houses  like  St.  Paul — a  higher  art  than 
any  of  man's  invention.  0  my  brother,  what  were  it  not  for 
thee  to  have  a  hand  in  making  thy  brother  beautiful ! 

Be  not  indignant,   my  reader  :  not  for  a  moment  did  I 


ANOTHER   CHANGE.  373 

imagine  thee  capable  of  such  a  mean  calling  !  It  is  left  to 
a  certain  school  of  weak  enthusiasts,  who  believe  that  such 
growth,  such  embellishment,  such  creation,  is  all  God  cares 
about ;  these  enthusiasts  can  not  indeed  see,  so  blind  have  they 
become  with  their  fixed  idea,  how  God  could  care  for  any- 
thing else.  They  actually  believe  that  the  very  Son  of  the 
life-making  God  lived  and  died  for  that,  and  for  nothing  else. 
That  such  men  and  women  are  fools,  is  and  has  been  so  widely 
believed,  that,  to  men  of  the  stamp  of  my  indignant  reader,  it 
has  become  a  fact  !  Bui  the  end  alone  will  reveal  the  begin- 
ning. Such  a  fool  was  Prometheus,  with  the  vulture  at  his 
heart — but  greater  than  Jupiter  with  his  gods  around  him. 

There  soon  came  a  change,  however,  and  the  lessons  ceased 
altogether. 

Tom  had  come  down  to  his  old  quarters,  and,  in  the  arro- 
gance of  convalescence,  had  presumed  on  his  imagined  strength, 
and  so  caught  cold.  An  alarming  relapse  was  the  consequence, 
and  there  was  no  more  playing ;  for  now  his  condition  began 
to  draw  to  a  change,  of  which,  for  some  time,  none  of  them 
had  even  thought,  the  patient  had  seemed  so  certainly  recover- 
ing.    The  cold  settled  on  his  lungs,  and  he  sank  rapidly. 

Joseph,  whose  violin  was  useless  now,  was  not  the  less  in 
attendance.  Every  evening,  when  his  work  was  over,  he  came 
knocking  gently  at  the  door  of  the  parlor,  and  never  left  until 
Tom  was  settled  for  the  night.  The  most  silently  helpful, 
undemonstrative  being  he  was,  that  doctor  could  desire  to  wait 
upon  patient.  When  it  was  his  turn  to  watch,  he  never 
closed  an  eye,  but  at  daybreak — for  it  was  now  spring — would 
rouse  Mary,  and  go  off  straight  to  his  work,  nor  taste  food 
until  the  hour  for  the  mid-day  meal  arrived. 

Tom  speedily  became  aware  that  his  days  were  numbered — 
phrase  of  unbelief,  for  are  they  not  numbered  from  the  begin- 
ning ?  Are  our  hairs  numbered,  and  our  days  forgotten — till 
death  gives  a  hint  to  the  doctor  ?  He  was  sorry  for  his  past 
life,  and  thoroughly  ashamed  of  much  of  it,  saying  in  all  hon- 
esty he  would  rather  die  than  fall  for  one  solitary  week  into 
the  old  ways — not  that  he  wished  to  die,  for,  with  the  confi- 
dence of  youth,  he  did  not  believe  he  could  fall  into  the  old 


374  MART  MARSTOK 

ways  again.  For  my  part,  I  think  he  was  taken  away  to  have 
a  little  more  of  that  care  and  nursing  which  neither  his 
mother  nor  his  wife  had  been  woman  enough  to  give  the  great 
baby.     After  all,  he  had  not  been  one  of  the  worst  of  babies. 

Is  it  strange  that  one  so  used  to  bad  company  and  bad  ways 
should  have  so  altered,  in  so  short  a  time,  and  without  any 
great  struggle  ?  The  assurance  of  death  at  the  door,  and  a 
wholesome  shame  of  things  that  are  past,  may,  I  think,  lead 
up  to  such  a  swift  change,  even  in  a  much  worse  man  than 
Tom.  For  there  is  the  Life  itself,  •all-surrounding,  and  ever 
pressing  in  upon  the  human  soul,  wherever  that  soul  will  af- 
ford a  chink  of  entrance  ;  and  Tom  had  not  yet  sealed  up  all 
his  doors. 

When  he  lay  there  dead — for  what  excuse  could  we  have 
for  foolish  lamentation,  if  we  did  not  speak  of  the  loved  as 
lying  dead  ? — Letty  had  him  already  enshrined  in  her  heart  as 
the  best  of  husbands — as  her  own  Tom,  who  had  never  said  a 
hard  word  to  her — as  the  cleverest  as  well  as  kindest  of  men, 
who  had  written  poetry  that  would  never  die  while  the  English 
language  was  -spoken.  Nor  did  "  The  Firefly  "  spare  its  dole  of 
homage  to  the  memory  of  one  of  its  gayest  writers.  Indeed, 
all  about  its  office  had  loved  him,  each  after  his  faculty.  Even 
the  boy  cried  when  he  heard  he  was  gone,  for  to  him  too  he  had 
always  given  a  kind  word,  coming  and  going.  A  certain  lit- 
tle runnel  of  verse  flowed  no  more  through  the  pages  of  "The 
Firefly,"  and  in  a  month  there  was  not  the  shadow  of  Tom  upon 
his  age.  But  the  print  of  him  was  deep  in  the  heart  of  Letty, 
and  not  shallow  in  the  affection  of  Mary ;  nor  were  such  as 
these,  insignificant  records  for  any  one  to  leave  behind  him,  as 
records  go.  Happy  was  he  to  have  left  behind  him  any  love, 
especially  such  a  love  as  Letty  bore  him  !  For  what  is  the 
loudest  praise  of  posterity  to  the  quietest  love  of  one's  own 
generation  ?  For  his  mother,  her  memory  was  mostly  in  her 
temper.  She  had  never  understood  her  wayward  child,  just 
because  she  had  given  him  her  waywardness,  and  not  parted 
with  it  herself,  so  that  between  them  the  two  made  havoc  of 
love.  But  she  who  gives  her  child  all  he  desires,  in  the  hope 
of  thus  binding  his  love  to  herself,  no  less  than  she  who 


ANOTHER   CHANGE.  375 

thwarts  him  in  everything,  may  rest  assured  of  the  neglect  she 
has  richly  earned.  When  she  heard  of  his  death,  she  howled 
and  cursed  her  fate,  and  the  woman,  meaning  poor  Letty,  who 
had  parted  her  and  her  Tom,  swearing  she  would  never  set 
eyes  upon  her,  never  let  her  touch  a  farthing  of  Tom's  money. 
She  would  not  hear  of  paying  his  debts  until  Mary  told  her 
she  then  would,  upon  which  the  fear  of  public  disapprobation 
wrought  for  right  if  not  righteousness. 

But  what  was  Mary  to  do  now  with  Letty  ?  She  was  little 
more  than  a  baby  yet,  not  silly  from  youth,  but  young  from 
silliness.  Children  must  learn  to  walk,  but  not  by  being 
turned  out  alone  in  Cheapside. 

She  wa3  relieved  from  some  perplexity  for  the  present,  how- 
ever, by  the  arrival  of  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Wardour  to  Letty, 
written  in  a  tone  of  stiffly  condescendent  compassion — not  so 
unpleasant  to  Letty  as  to  her  friend,  because  from  childhood 
she  had  been  used  to  the  nature  that  produced  it,  and  had  her 
mind  full  of  a  vast,  undefined  notion  of  the  superiority  of  the 
writer.  It  may  be  a  question  whether  those  who  fill  our  inex- 
perienced minds  with  false  notions  of  their  greatness,  do  us 
thereby  more  harm  or  good  ;  certainly  when  one  comes  to  un- 
derstand with  what  an  arrogance  and  self-assertion  they  have 
done  so,  putting  into  us  as  reverence  that  which  in  them  is 
conceit,  one  is  r^ady  to  be  scornful  more  than  enough  ;  but, 
rather  than  have  a  child  question  such  claims,  I  would  have 
him  respect  the  meanest  soul  that  ever  demanded  respect ;  the 
first  shall  be  last  in  good  time,  and  the  power  of  revering  come 
forth  uninjured  ;  whereas  a  child  judging  his  elders  has  already 
withered  the  blossom  of  his  being. 

But  Mrs.  Wardour's  letter  was  kind — perhaps  a  little  rep- 
entant ;  it  is  hard  to  say,  for  ten  persons  will  repent  of  a  sin 
for  one  who  will  confess  it — I  do  not  mean  to  the  priest — 
that  may  be  an  easy  matter,  but  to  the  only  one  who  has  a 
claim  to  the  confession,  namely,  the  person  wronged.  Yet 
such  confession  is  in  truth  far  more  needful  to  the  wronger 
than  to  the  wronged  ;  it  is  a  small  thing  to  be  wronged,  but  a 
horrible  thing  to  wrong. 

The  letter  contained  a  poverty-stricken  expression  of  sym- 


376  MARY  MAEBTOK 

pathy,  and  an  invitation  to  spend  the  summer  months  with 
them  at  her  old  home.  It  might,  the  letter  said,  prove  but  a 
dull  place  to  her  after  the  gayety  to  which  she  had  of  late  been 
accustomed,  but  it  might  not  the  less  suit  her  present  sad  situ- 
ation, and  possibly  uncertain  prospects. 

Letty's  heart  felt  one  little  throb  of  gladness  at  the  thought 
of  being  again  at  Thorn  wick,  and  in  peace.  With  all  the 
probable  unpleasant  accompaniments  of  the  visit,  nowhere  else, 
she  thought,  could  she  feel  the  same  sense  of  shelter  as  where 
her  childhood  had  passed.  Mary  also  was  pleased ;  for,  although 
Letty  might  not  be  comfortable,  the  visit  would  end,  and  by 
that  time  she  might  know  what  could  be  devised  best  for  her 
comfort  and  well-being. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

DISSOLUTION". 

It  was  now  Mary's  turn  to  feel  that  she  was,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  about  to  be  cut  adrift — adrift,  that  is,  as  a 
world  is  adrift,  on  the  surest  of  paths,  though  without  eyes  to 
see.  For  ten  days  or  so,  she  could  form  no  idea  of  what  she 
was  likely  or  would  like  to  do  next.  But,  when  we  are  in  such 
perplexity,  may  not  the  fact  be  accepted  as  showing  that  deci- 
sion is  not  required  of  us — perhaps  just  because  our  way  is  at 
the.  moment  being  made  straight  for  us  ? 

Joseph  called  once  or  twice,  but,  for  Letty's  sake,  they  had 
no  music.  As  they  met  so  seldom  now,  Mary,  anxious  to  serve 
him  as  she  could,  offered  him  the  loan  of  some  of  her  favorite 
books.  He  accepted  it  with  a  gladness  that  surprised  her,  for 
she  did  not  know  how  much  he  had  of  late  been  reading. 

One  day  she  received  an  unexpected  visit — from  Mr.  Brett, 
her  lawyer.  He  had  been  searching  into  the  affairs  of  the  shop, 
and  had.  discovered  enough  to  make  him  uneasy,  and  indeed 
fill  him  with  self-reproach  that  he  had  not  done  so  with  more 
thoroughness  immediately  on  her  father's  death.    He  had  come 


DISSOLUTION.  377 

to  tell  her  all  lie  knew,  and  talk  the  matter  over  with  her,  that 
they  might  agree  what  proceedings  should  be  taken. 

I  will  not  weary  myself  or  my  readers  with  business  detail, 
for  which  kind  of  thing  I  have  no  great  aptitude,  and  a  good 
deal  of  incapacitating  ignorance  ;  but  content  myself  with  the 
briefest  statement  of  the  condition  in  which  Mr.  Brett  found 
the  affairs  of  Mr.  Turnbull. 

He  had  been  speculating  in  several  companies,  making  haste 
to  be  rich,  and  had  periled  and  lost  what  he  had  saved  of  the 
profits  of  the  business,  and  all  of  Mary's  as  well  that  had  not 
been  elsewhere  secured.  He  had  even  trenched  on  the  original 
capital  of  the  firm,  by  postponing  the  payment  of  moneys  due, 
and  allowing  the  stock  to  run  down  and  to  deteriorate,  and 
things  out  of  fashion  to  accumulate,  so  that  the  business  had 
perceptibly  fallen  off.  But  what  displeased  Mary  more  than 
anything  was,  that  he  had  used  money  of  her  father's  to  specu- 
late with  in  more  than  one  public-house  ;  and  she  knew  that,  if 
in  her  father's  lifetime  he  had  so  used  even  his  own,  it  would 
have  been  enough  to  make  him  insist  on  dissolving  partner- 
ship. 

It  was  impossible  to  allow  her  money  to  remain  any  longer 
in  the  power  of  such  a  man,  and  she  gave  authority  to  Mr. 
Brett  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements  for  putting  an  end 
to  business  relations  between  them. 

It  was  a  somewhat  complicated,  therefore  tedious  business  ; 
and  things  looked  worse  the  further  they  were  searched  into. 
Unable  to  varnish  the  facts  to  the  experience  of  a  professional 
eye,  Mr.  Turnbull  wrote  Mary  a  letter  almost  cringing  in  its 
tone,  begging  her  to  remember  the  years  her  father  and  he  had 
been  as  brothers  ;  how  she  had  grown  up  in  the  shop,  and  had 
been  to  him,  until  misunderstandings  arose,  into  the  causes  of 
which  he  could  not  now  enter,  in  the  place  of  a  daughter ;  and 
insisting  that  her  withdrawal  from  it  had  had  no  small  share 
in  the  ruin  of  the  business.  For  these  considerations,  and, 
more  than  all,  for  the  memory  of  her  father,  he  entreated  her 
to  leave  things  as  they  were,  to  trust  him  to  see  after  the  in- 
terests of  the  daughter  of  his  old  friend,  and  not  insist  upon 
measures  which  must  end  in  a  forced  sale,  in  the  shutting  up 


378  MART  MARSTOK 

of  the  shop  of  Turnbull  and  Marston,  and  the  disgracing  of  her 
father's  name  along  with  his. 

Mary  replied  that  she  was  acting  by  the  advice  of  her  fa- 
ther's lawyer,  and  with  the  regard  she  owed  her  father's  mem- 
ory, in  severing  all  connection  with  a  man  in  whom  she  no 
longer  had  confidence  ;  and  insisted  that  the  business  must  be 
wound  up  as  soon  as  possible. 

She  instructed  Mr.  Brett,  at  the  same  time,  that,  if  it  could 
be  managed,  she  would  prefer  getting  the  shop,  even  at  con- 
siderable loss,  into  her  own  hands,  with  what  stock  might  be 
in  it,  when  she  would  attempt  to  conduct  the  business  on  prin- 
ciples her  father  would  have  approved,  whereby  she  did  not 
doubt  of  soon  restoring  it  to  repute.  While  she  had  no  inten- 
tion, she  said,  of  selling  so  well  as  Mr.  Turnbull  would  fain 
have  done,  she  believed  she  would  soon  be  able  to  buy  to  just 
as  good  advantage  as  he.  It  would  be  necessary,  however,  to 
keep  her  desire  a  secret,  else  Mr.  Turnbull  would  be  certain  to 
frustrate  it. 

Mr.  Brett  approved  of  her  plan,  for  he  knew  she  was  much 
respected,  and  had  many  friends.  Mr.  Turnbull  would  be 
glad,  he  said,  to  give  up  the  whole  to  escape  prosecution — that 
at  least  was  how  Mary  interpreted  his  somewhat  technical  state- 
ment of  affairs  between  them. 

The  swindler  wrote  again,  begging  for  an  interview — which 
she  declined,  except  in  the  presence  of  her  lawyer. 

She  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  not  go  near  Test- 
bridge  till  everything  was  settled,  and  the  keys  of  the  shop  in 
Mr.  Brett's  hands  ;  and  remained,  therefore,  where  she  was — 
with  Letty,  who  to  keep  her  company  delayed  her  departure 
as  long  as  she  could  without  giving  offense  at  Thornwick. 

A  few  days  before  Letty  was  at  last  compelled  to  leave,  Jas- 
per called,  and  heard  about  as  much  as  they  knew  themselves 
of  their  plans.  When  Mary  said  to  him  she  would  miss  her 
pupil,  he  smiled  in  a  sort  of  abstracted  way,  as  if  not  quite 
apprehending  what  she  said,  which  seemed  to  Mary  a  little 
odd,  his  manners  in  essentials  being  those  of  a  gentleman,  as 
judged  by  one  a  little  more  than  a  lady ;  for  there  is  an  un- 
named degree  higher  than  the  ordinary  lady. 


DISSOLUTION.  379 

So  Mary  was  left  alone — more  alone  than  she  had  ever  been 
in  her  life.  But  she  did  not  feel  lonely,  for  the  best  of  reasons 
—that  she  never  fancied  herself  alone,  but  knew  that  she  was 
not.  Also  she  had  books  at  her  command,  being  one  of  the 
few  who  can  read ;  and  there  were  picture-galleries  to  go  to, 
and  music-lessons  to  be  had.  Of  these  last  she  crowded  in  as 
many  as  her  master  could  be  persuaded  to  give  her — for  it 
would  be  long,  she  knew,  before  she  was  able  to  have  such  again. 

Joseph  Jasper  never  came  near  her.  She  could  not  im- 
agine why,  and  was  disappointed  and  puzzled. 

To  know  that  Ann  Byrom  was  in  the  house  was  not  a  great 
comfort  to  her — she  regarded  so  much  that  Mary  loved  as  of 
earth  and  not  of  heaven.  God's  world  even  she  despised,  be- 
cause men  called  it  nature,  and  spoke  of  its  influences.  But 
Mary  did  go  up  to  see  her  now  and  then.  Very  different  she 
seemed  from  the  time  when  first  they  were  at  work  together 
over  Hesper's  twilight  dress  !  Ever  since  Mary  had  made  th& 
acquaintance  of  her  brother,  she  seemed  to  have  changed 
toward  her.  Perhaps  she  was  jealous ;  perhaps  she  believed 
Mary  was  confirming  him  in  his  bad  ways.  Just  where  they 
were  all  three  of  one  mind — just  there  her  rudimentary  there- 
fore self-sufficient  religion  shut  them  out  from  her  sympathy 
and  fellowship. 

Alone,  and  with  her  time  at  her  command,  Mary  was  more 
inclined  than  she  had  ever  been,  except  for  her  father's  com- 
pany, to  go  to  church.  The  second  Sunday  after  Letty  left 
her,  she  went  to  the  one  nearest,  and  in  the  congregation 
thought  she  saw  Joseph.  A  Aveek  before,  she  would  have 
waited  for  him  as  he  came  out,  but,  now  that  he  seemed  to 
avoid  her,  she  would  not,  and  went  home  neither  comforted 
by  the  sermon  nor  comfortable  with  herself.  For  the  parson, 
instead  of  recognizing,  through  all  defects  of  the  actual,  the 
pattern  after  which  God  had  made  man,  would  fain  have  him 
remade  after  the  pattern  of  the  middle-age  monk — a  being  far 
superior,  no  doubt,  to  the  most  of  his  contemporaries,  but  as 
far  from  the  beauty  of  the  perfect  man  as  the  mule  is  from 
that  of  the  horse  ;  and  she  was  annoyed  with  herself  that  she 
was  annoyed  with  Joseph. 


380  MART  MARSTOK 

It  was  the  middle  of  summer  before  the  affairs  of  the  firm 
were  wound  up,  and  the  shop  in  the  hands  of  the  London  man 
whom  Mr.  Brett  had  employed  in  the  purchase. 

Lawyer  as  he  was,  however,  Mr.  Brett  had  not  been  sharp 
enough  for  Turnbull.  The  very  next  day,  a  shop  in  the  same 
street,  that  had  been  to  let  for  some  time,  displayed  above  its 
now  open  door  the  sign,  John  Turnbull,  late — then  a  very 
small  of — Turnbull  and  Marston ;  whereupon  Mr.  Brett  saw 
the  oversight  of  which  he  had  been  guilty.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  shop  when  it  was  opened,  but  that  Turnbull  utilized 
for  advertisement :  he  had  so  arranged,  that  within  an  hour 
the  goods  began  to  arrive,  and  kept  arriving,  by  every  train, 
for  days  and  days  after,  while  all  the  time  he  made  public 
show  of  himself,  fussing  about,  the  most  triumphant  man  in  the 
town.  It  made  people  talk,  and  if  not  always  as  he  would 
have  liked  to  hear  them  talk,  yet  it  was  talk,  and,  in  the  mat- 
ter of  advertisement,  that  is  the  main  thing. 

"When  it  was  told  Mary,  it  gave  her  not  the  smallest  uneasi- 
ness. She  only  saw  what  had  several  times  seemed  on  the 
point  of  arriving  in  her  father's  lifetime.  She  would  not  have 
moved  a  finger  to  prevent  it.  Let  the  two  principles  meet, 
with  what  result  God  pleased  ! 

Whether  he  had  suspected  her  design,  and  had  determined 
to  challenge  her  before  the  public,  I  can  not  tell ;  but  his  wife's 
aversion  to  shopkeeping  was  so  great,  that  one  who  knew 
what  sort  of  scene  passed  because  of  it  between  them,  would 
have  expected  that,  but  for  some  very  strong  reason,  he  would 
have  been  glad  enough  to  retire  from  that  mode  of  gaining  a 
livelihood.  As  it  was,  things  appeared  to  go  on  with  them 
just  as  before.  They  still  inhabited  the  villa,  the  wife  scornful 
of  her  surroundings,  and  the  husband  driving  a  good  horse  to 
his  shop  every  morning.  How  he  managed  it  all,  nobody  knew 
but  himself,  and  whether  he  succeeded  or  not  was  a  matter  of 
small  interest  to  any  except  his  own  family  and  his  creditors. 
He  was  a  man  nowise  beloved,  although  there  was  something 
about  him  that  carried  simple  people  with  him — for  his  ends, 
not  theirs.  To  those  who  alluded  to  the  change,  he  repre- 
sented it  as  entirely  his  own  doing,  to  be  rid  of  the  interference 


DISSOLUTION.  381 

of  Miss  Marston  in  matters  of  which  she  knew  nothing.  He 
knew  well  that  a  confident  lie  has  all  the  look  of  truth,  and, 
while  fact  and  falsehood  were  disputing  together  in  men's 
mouths,  he  would  be  selling  his  drapery.  The  country  people 
were  flattered  by  the  confidence  he  seemed  to  put  in  them  by 
this  explanation,  and  those  who  liked  him  before  sought  the 
new  shop  as  they  had  frequented  the  old  one. 

Unlike  most  men,  not  to  say  lawyers,  Mr.  Brett  was  fully 
recognizant  to  Mary  of  his  oversight,,  and  was  not  a  little  re- 
lieved to  be  assured  she  would  not  have  had  the  thing  other- 
wise :  she  would  gladly  meet  Mr.  Turnbull  in  a  fair  field — not 
that  she  would  in  the  least  acknowledge  or  think  of  him  as  a 
rival ;  she  would  simply  carry  out  her  own  ideas  of  right,  with- 
out regard  to  him  or  any  measures  he  might  take  ;  the  result 
should  be  as  God  willed.  Mr.  Brett  shook  his  head  :  he  knew 
her  father  of  old,  and  saw  the  daughter  prepared  to  go  beyond 
the  father.  Theirs  were  principles  that  did  not  come  within 
the  range  of  his  practice  !  He  said  to  himself  and  his  wife 
that  the  world  could  not  go  on  for  a  twelvemonth  if  such  ways 
were  to  become  universal  :  whether  by  the  world  he  meant  his 
own  profession,  I  will  not  inquire .  Certainly  he  did  not  make 
the  reflection  that  the  new  ways  are  intended  to  throw  out  the 
old  ways  ;  and  the  worst  argument  against  any  way  is  that  the 
world  can  not  go  on  so  ;  for  that  is  just  what  is  wanted — that 
the  world  should  not  go  on  so.  Mr.  Brett  nevertheless  ad- 
mired not  only  Mary's  pluck,  but  the  business  faculty  which 
every  moment  she  manifested  :  there  is  a  holy  way  of  doing 
business,  and,  little  as  business  men  may  think  it,  that  is  the 
standard  by  which  they  must  be  tried  ;  for  their  judge  in  busi- 
ness affairs  is  not  their  own  trade  or  profession,  but  the  man 
who  came  to  convince  the  world  concerning  right  and  wrong 
and  the  choice  between  them  ;  or,  in  the  older  speech — to  re- 
prove the  world  of  sin,  and  of  righteousness,  and  of  judgment. 


382  MARY  MAR8T0N. 

CHAPTER  XLIX. 

THOKKrWICK. 

It  was  almost  with  bewilderment  that  Mrs.  Helmer  revisit- 
ed Thornwick.  The  near  past  seemed  to  have  vanished  like  a 
dream  that  leaves  a  sorrow  behind  it,  and  the  far  past  to  take 
its  place.  She  had  never  been  accustomed  to  reflect  on  her  own 
feelings ;  things  came,  were  welcome  or  unwelcome,  proved 
better  or  worse  than  she  had  anticipated,  passed  away,  and 
were  mostly  forgotten.  With  plenty  of  faculty,  Letty  had  not 
yet  emerged  from  the  chrysalid  condition  ;  she  lived  much  as 
one  in  a  dream,  with  whose  dream  mingle  sounds  and  glim- 
mers from  the  waking  world.  Very  few  of  us  are  awake,  very 
few  even  alive  in  true,  availing  sense.  "  Pooh  !  what  stuff  ! " 
says  the  sleeper,  and  will  say  it  until  the  waking  begins  to 
come. 

On  the  threshold  of  her  old  home,  then,  Letty  found  her  old 
self  awaiting  her  ;  she  crossed  it,  and  was  once  more  just  Letty, 
a  Letty  wrapped  in  the  garments  of  sorrow,  and  with  a  heaviness 
at  the  heart,  but  far  from  such  a  miserable  Letty  as  during  the 
last  of  her  former  life  there.  Little  joy  had  been  hers  since 
the  terrible  night  when  she  fled  from  its  closed  doors  ;  and  now 
that  she  returned,  she  could  take  up  everything  where  she  had 
left  it,  except  the  gladness.  But  peace  is  better  than  gladness, 
and  she  was  on  the  way  to  find  that. 

Mrs.  Wardour,  who,  for  all  her  severity,  was  not  without  a 
good-sized  heart,  and  whose  conscience  had  spoken  to  her  in 
regard  of  Letty  far  of tener  than  any  torture  would  have  made 
her  allow,  was  touched  with  compassion  at  sight  of  her  worn 
and  sad  look  ;  and,  granting  to  herself  that  the  poor  thing  had 
been  punished  enough,  even  for  her  want  of  respect  to  the 
house  of  Thornwick,  broke  down  a  little,  though  with  well- 
preserved  dignity,  and  took  the  wandering  ewe-lamb  to  her 
bosom.  Letty,  loving  and  forgiving  always,  nestled  in  it  for 
a  moment,  and  in  her  own  room  quietly  wept  a  long  time. 
When  she  came  out,  Mrs.  Wardour  pleased  herself  with  the 
fancy  that  her  eyes  were  red  with  the  tears  of  repentance  ;  but 


THORNWIGK.  383 

Letty  never  dreamed  of  repenting,  for  that  would  haye  been  to 
deny  Tom,  to  cut  off  her  married  life,  throw  it  from  her,  and 
never  more  see  Tom. 

By  degrees,  rapid  yet  easy,  she  slid  into  all  her  old  ways  ; 
took  again  the  charge  of  the  dairy  as  if  she  had  never  left  it ; 
attended  to  the  linen  ;  darned  the  stockings  ;  and  in  everything 
but  her  pale,  thin  face,  and  heavy,  exhausted  heart,  was  the 
young  Letty  again.  She  even  went  to  the  harness-room  to 
look  to  Cousin  Godfrey's  stirrups  and  bits  ;  but  finding,  morn- 
ing after  morning  for  a  whole  week,  that  they  had  not  once 
been  neglected,  dismissed  the  care — not  without  satisfaction. 

Mrs.  Wardour  continued  kind  to  her ;  but  every  now  and 
then  would  allow  a  tone  as  of  remembered  naughtiness  to  be 
sub-audible  in  speech  or  request.  Letty,  even  in  her  own  heart, 
never  resented  it.  She  had  been  so  used  to  it  in  the  old  days, 
that  it  seemed  only  natural.  And  then  her  aunt  considered  her 
health  in  the  kindest  way.  Now  that  Letty  had  known  some 
of  the  troubles  of  marriage,  she  felt  more  sympathy  with  her, 
did  not  look  down  upon  her  from  quite  such  a  height,  and  to 
Letty  this  was  strangely  delightful.  Oh,  what  a  dry,  hard,  cold 
world  this  would  grow  to,  but  for  the  blessing  of  its  many  sick- 
nesses ! 

When  Godfrey  saw  her  moving  about  the  house  as  in  former 
days,  but  changed,  like  one  of  the  ghosts  of  his  saddest  dreams, 
a  new  love  began  to  rise  out  of  the  buried  seed  of  the  old.  In 
vain  he  reasoned  with  himself,  in  vain  he  resisted.  The  image 
of  Letty,  with  its  trusting  eyes  fixed  on  him  so  "solemn  sad," 
and  its  watching  looks  full  of  ministration,  haunted  him,  and 
was  too  much  for  him.  She  was  never  the  sort  of  woman  he 
could  have  fancied  himself  falling  in  love  with  ;  he  did  in  fact 
say  to  himself  that  she  was  only  almost  a  lady — but  at  the  word 
his  heart  rebuked  him  for  a  traitor  to  love  and  its  holy  laws. 
Neither  in  person  was  she  at  all  his  ideal.  A  woman  like 
Hesper,  uplifted  and  strong,  broad-fronted  and  fearless,  large- 
limbed,  and  full  of  latent  life,  was  more  of  the  ideal  he  could 
have  written  poetry  about.  But  we  are  deeper  than  we  know. 
Who  is  capable  of  knowing  his  own  ideal  ?  The  ideal  of  a  man's 
self  is  hid  in  the  bosom  of  God,  and  may  lie  ages  away  from  his 


384:  MARY  MARSTOK 

knowledge ;  and  his  ideal  of  woman  is  the  ideal  belonging  to 
this  unknown  self :  the  ideal  only  can  bring  forth  an  ideal. 
He  can  not,  therefore,  know  his  own  ideal  of  woman  ;  it  is, 
nevertheless — so  I  presume — this  his  own  unknown  ideal  that 
makes  a  man  choose  against  his  choice.  Gladly  would  Godfrey 
now  have  taken  Letty  to  his  arms.  It  was  no  longer  anything 
that  from  boyhood  he  had  vowed  rather  to  die  unmarried,  and 
let  the  land  go  to  a  stranger,  than  marry  a  widow.  He  had  to 
recall  every  restraining  fact  of  his  and  her  position  to  prevent 
him  from  now  precipitating  that  which  he  had  before  too  long 
delayed.  But  the  gulf  of  the  grave  and  the  jealousy  of  a  moth- 
er were  between  them ;  for,  if  he  were  again  to  rouse  her  sus- 
picions, she  would  certainly  get  rid  of  Letty,  as  she  had  before 
intended,  so  depriving  her  of  a  home,  and  him  of  opportunity. 
He  kept,  therefore,  out  of  Letty's  way  as  much  as  he  could, 
went  more  about  the  farm,  and  took  long  rides. 

Nothing  was  further  from  Letty  than  any  merest  suspicion 
of  the  sort  of  regard  Godfrey  cherished  for  her.  There  was 
in  her  nothing  of  the  self-sentimental.  Her  poet  was  gone 
from  her,  but  she  did  not  therefore  take  to  poetry  ;  nay,  what 
poetry  she  had  learned  to  like  was  no  longer  anything  to  her, 
now  her  singing  bird  had  flown  to  the  land  of  song.  To  her, 
Tom  was  the  greatest,  the  one  poet  of  the  age  ;  he  had  been 
hers — was  hers  still,  for  did  he  not  die  telling  her  that  he 
would  go  on  watching  till  she  came  to  him  ?  He  had  loved 
her,  she  knew ;  he  had  learned  to  love  her  better  before  he 
died.  She  must  be  patient ;  the  day  would  come  when  she 
should  be  a  Psyche,  as  he  had  told  her,  and  soar  aloft  in  search 
of  her  mate.  The  sense  of  wifehood  had  grown  one  with  her 
consciousness.  It  mingled  with  all  her  prayers,  both  in  cham- 
ber and  in  church.  As  she  went  about  the  house,  she  was 
dreaming  of  her  Tom — an  angel  in  heaven,  she  said  to  herself, 
but  none  the  less  her  husband,  and  waiting  for  her.  If  she 
did  not  read  poetry,  she  read  her  New  Testament ;  and  if  she 
understood  it  only  in  a  childish  fashion,  she  obeyed  it  in  a  child- 
like one,  whence  the  way  of  all  wisdom  lay  open  before  her. 
It  is  not  where  one  is,  but  in  what  direction  he  is  going.  Be- 
fore her,  too,  was  her  little  boy — borne  in  his  father's  arms,  she 


THORNWICK.  385 

pictured  him,  and  hearing  from  him  of  the  mother  who  was 
coming  to  them  by  and  by,  when  God  had  made  her  good 
enough  to  rejoin  them  ! 

But,  while  she  continued  thus  simple,  Godfrey  could  not 
fail  to  see  how  much  more  of  a  woman  she  had  grown  :  he  was 
not  yet  capable  of  seeing  that  she  would — could  never  have  got 
so  far  with  him,  even  if  he  had  married  her. 

Love  and  marriage  are  of  the  Father's  most  powerful  means 
for  the  making  of  his  foolish  little  ones  into  sons  and  daugh- 
ters. But  so  unlike  in  many  cases  are  the  immediate  conse- 
quences to  those  desired  and  expected,  that  it  is  hard  for  not 
a  few  to  believe  that  he  is  anywhere  looking  after  their  fate — 
caring  about  them  at  all.  And  the  doubt  would  be  a  reason- 
able one,  if  the  end  of  things  was  marriage.  But  the  end  is 
life — that  we  become  the  children  of  God;  after  which,  all 
things  can  and  will  go  their  grand,  natural  course  ;  the  heart 
of  the  Father  will  be  content  for  his  children,  and  the  hearts 
of  the  children  will  be  content  in  their  Father. 

Godfrey  indulged  one  great  and  serious  mistake  in  refer- 
ence to  Letty,  namely,  that,  having  learned  the  character  of 
Tom  through  the  saddest  of  personal  experience,  she  must 
have  come  to  think  of  him  as  he  did,  and  must  have  dismissed 
from  her  heart  every  remnant  of  love  for  him.  Of  course,  he 
would  not  hint  at  such  a  thing,  he  said  to  himself,  nor  would 
she  for  a  moment  allow  it,  but  nothing  else  could  be  the  state 
of  her  mind  !  He  did  not  know  that  in  a  woman's  love  there 
is  more  of  the  specially  divine  element  than  in  a  man's — 
namely,  the  original,  the  unmediated.  The  first  of  God's  love 
is  not  founded  upon  any  merit,  rests  only  on  being  and  need, 
and  the  worth  that  is  yet  unborn. 

The  Redmains  were  again  at  Durnmelling — had  been  for  some 
weeks  ;  and  Sepia  had  taken  care  that  she  and  Godfrey  should 
meet — on  the  footpath  to  Testbridge,  in  the  field  accessible  by 
the  breach  in  the  ha-ha — here  and  there  and  anywhere  suitable 
for  a  little  detention  and  talk  that  should  seem  accidental,  and 
be  out  of  sight.  Nor  was  Godfrey  the  man  to  be  insensible  to 
the  influence  of  such  a  woman,  brought  to  bear  at  close  quarters. 
A  man  less  vulnerable — I  hate  the  word,  but  it  is  the  right  .one 
17 


386  MARY  MABSTON. 

with.  Sepia  concerned,  for  she  was,  in  truth,  an  enemy — might 
perhaps  have  yielded  room  to  the  suspicion  that  these  meetings 
were  not  all  so  accidental  as  they  appeared,  and  as  Sepia  treated 
them  ;  but  no  glimmer  of  such  a  thought  passed  through  the 
mind  of  Godfrey.  He  knew  nothing  of  all  that  my  readers  know 
to  Sepia's  disadvantage,  and  her  eyes  were  enough  to  subdue  most 
men  from  the  first — for  a  time  at  least.  Had  it  not  been  for  the 
return  of  Letty,  she  would  by  this  time  have  had  him  her  slave  : 
nothing  but  slavery  could  it  ever  be  to  love  a  woman  like  her, 
who  gave  no  love  in  return,  only  exercised  power.  But  although 
he  was  always  glad  to  meet  her,  and  his  heart  had  begun  to  beat 
a  little  faster  at  sight  of  her  approach,  the  glamour  of  her  pres- 
ence was  nearly  destroyed  by  the  arrival  of  Letty  ;  and  Sepia 
was  more  than  sharp  enough  to  perceive  a  difference  in  the  ex- 
pression of  his  eyes  the  next  time  she  met  him..  At  the  very 
first  glance  she  suspected  some  hostile  influence  at  work  ! — in- 
tentionally hostile,  for  persons  with  a  consciousness  like  Sepia's 
are  always  imagining  enemies.  And  as  the  two  worst  enemies 
she  could  have  were  the  truth  and  a  woman,  she  was  alter- 
nately jealous  and  terrified  :  the  truth  and  a  woman  together, 
she  had  not  yet  begun  to  fear ;  that  would,  indeed,  be  too 
much  ! 

She  soon  found  there  was  a  young  woman  at  Thornwick, 
who  had  but  just  arrived  ;  and  ere  long  she  learned  who  she 
was — one,  indeed,  who  had  already  a  shadowy  existence  in  her 
life — was  it  possible  the  shadow  should  be  now  taking  solidity, 
and  threatening  to  foil  her  ?  Not  once  did  it  occur  to  her  that, 
were  it  so,  there  would  be  retribution  in  it.  She  had  heard  of 
Tom's  death  through  ' '  The  Firefly,"  which  had  a  kind,  extrav- 
agant article  about  him,  but  she  had  not  once  thought  of  his 
widow — and  there  she  was,  a  hedge  across  the  path  she  wanted 
to  go  !  If  the  house  of  Durnmelling  had  but  been  one  story 
higher,  that  she  might  see  all  round  Thornwick  ! 

For  some  time  now,  as  I  have  already  more  than  hinted., 
Sepia  had  been  fashioning  a  man  to  her  thrall — Mewks,  name- 
ly, the  body-servant  of  Mr.  Kedmain.  It  was  a  very  gradual 
process  she  had  adopted,  and  it  had  been  the  more  successful. 
It  had  got  so  far  with  him  that  whatever  Sepia  showed  the 


TEORNWIGK.  387 

least  wish  to  understand,  Mewks  would  take  endless  trouble  to 
learn  for  her.  The  rest  of  the  servants,  both  at  Durnmelling 
and  in  London,  were  none  of  them  very  friendly  with  her — 
least  of  all  Jemima,  who  was  now  with  her  mistress  as  lady's- 
maid,  the  accomplished  attendant  whom  Hesper  had  procured 
in  place  of  Mary  being  away  for  a  holiday. 

The  more  Sepia  realized,  or  thought  she  realized,  the  posi- 
tion she  was  in,  the  more  desirous  was  she  to  get  out  of  it,  and 
the  only  feasible  and  safe  way,  in  her  eyes,  was  marriage  :  there 
was  nothing  between  that  and  a  return  to  what  she  counted 
slavery.  Rather  than  lift  again  such  a  hideous  load  of  irksome- 
ness,  she  would  find  her  way  out  of  a  world  in  which  it  was  not 
possible,  she  said,  to  be  both  good  and  comfortable  :  she  had,  in 
truth,  tried  only  the  latter.  But  if  she  could,  she  thought,  se- 
cure for  a  husband  this  gentleman-yeoman,  she  might  hold  up 
her  head  with  the  best.  Even  if  Galofta  should  reappear,  she 
would  know  then  how  to  meet  him  :  with  a  friend  or  two,  such 
as  she  had  never  had  yet,  she  could  do  what  she  pleased  !  It 
was  hard  work  to  get  on  quite  alone — or  with  people  who  cared 
only  for  themselves  !  She  must  have  some  love  on  her  side  ! 
some  one  who  cared  for  Tier ! 

From  all  she  could  learn,  there  was  nothing  that  amounted 
even  to  ordinary  friendship  between  Mr.  Wardour  and  the 
young  widow.  She  was  in  the  family  but  as  a  distant  poor  re- 
lation— "  Much  as  I  am  myself  !"  thought  Sepia,  with  a  bitter 
laugh  that  even  in  her  own  eyes  she  should  be  comparable  to  a 
poor  creature  like  Letty.  The  fact,  however,  remained  that 
Godfrey  was  a  little  altered  toward  her  :  she  must  have  been 
telling  him  something  against  her — something  she  had  heard 
from  that  detestable  little  hypocrite  who  was  turned  away  on 
suspicion  of  theft !  Yes — that  was  how  Sepia  talked  to  herself 
about  Mary. 

One  morning,  Letty,  finding  she  had  an  hour's  leisure,  for 
her  aunt  did  not  pursue  her  as  of  old  time,  wandered  out  to 
the  oak  on  the  edge  of  the  ha-ha,  so  memorable  with  the  shad- 
owy presence  of  her  Tom.  She  had  not  been  seated  under  it 
many-minutes  before  Godfrey  caught  sight  of  her  from  his 
horse's  back  :  knowing  his  mother  was  gone  to  Testbridge,  he 


388  MART  MARSTOK 

yielded  to  an  urgent  longing,  took  his  horse  to  the  stable,  and 
crossed  the  grass  to  where  she  sat. 

Letty  was  thinking  of  Tom — what  else  was  there  of  her 
own  to  do  ? — thinking  like  a  child,  looking  up  into  the  cloud- 
flecked  sky,  and  thinking  Tom  Avas  somewhere  there,  though 
she  could  not  see  him  :  she  must  be  good  and  patient,  that  she 
might  go  up  to  him,  as  he  could  not  come  down  to  her — if  he 
could,  he  would  have  come  long  ago  !  All  the  enchantment  of 
the  first  days  of  her  love  had  come  back  upon  the  young  widow  ; 
all  the  ill  that  had  crept  in  between  had  failed  from  out  her 
memory,  as  the  false  notes  in  music  melt  in  the  air  that  carries 
the  true  ones  across  ravine  and  river,  meadow  and  grove,  to 
the  listening  ear.  Letty  lived  in  a  dream  of  her  husband — in 
heaven,  '-  yet  not  from  her" — such  a  dream  of  bliss  and  hope 
as  in  itself  went  far  to  make  up  for  all  her  sorrows. 

She  was  sitting  with  her  back  toward  the  tree  and  her  face 
to  Thornwick,  and  yet  she  did  not  see  Godfrey  till  he  was  within 
a  few  yards  of  her.  She  smiled,  expecting  his  kind  greeting, 
but  was  startled  to  hear  from  behind  her  instead  the  voice  of  a 
lady  greeting  him.  She  turned  her  head  involuntarily  :  there 
was  the  head  of  Sepia  rising  above  the  breach  in  the  ha-ha,  and 
Godfrey  had  turned  aside  and  run  to  give  her  his  hand. 

Now  Letty  knew  Sepia  by  sight,  from  the  evening  she  had 
spent  at  the  old  hall  :  more  of  her  she  knew  nothing.  From 
the  mind  of  Tom,  in  his  illness,  her  baleful  influence  had  van- 
ished like  an  evil  dream,  and  Mary  had  not  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  let  him  know  how  falsely,  contemptuously,  and  con- 
temptibly, she  had  behaved  toward  him.  Letty,  therefore,  had 
no  feeling  toward  Sepia  but  one  of  admiration  for  her  grace 
and  beauty,  which  she  could  appreciate  the  more  that  they 
were  so  different  from  her  own. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Sepia,  holding  fast  by  Godfrey's  hand, 
and  coming  up  with  a  little  pant.  "  What  a  lovely  day  it  is 
for  your  haymaking  !  How  can  you  afford  the  time  to  play 
knight-errant  to  a  distressed  damsel  ?  " 

"  The  hay  is  nearly  independent  of  my  presence,"  replied 
Godfrey.  "  Sun  and  wind  have  done  their  parts  too  well  for  my 
being  of  much  use." 


THOENWIGK.  389 

"  Take  me  with  you  to  see  how  they  are  getting  on.  I  am 
as  fond  of  hay  as  Bottom  in  his  translation." 

She  had  learned  Godfrey's  love  of  literature,  and  knew  that 
one  quotation  may  stand  for  much  knowledge. 

"  I  will,  with  pleasure,"  said  Godfrey,  perhaps  a  little  con- 
soled in  the  midst  of  his  disappointment ;  and  they  walked 
away,  neither  taking  notice  of  Letty. 

"  I  did  not  know,"  she  said  to  herself,  "that  the  two  houses 
had  come  together  at  last  !  "What  a  handsome  couple  they 
make  ! " 

What  passed  between  them  is  scarcely  worthy  of  record. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  Sepia  found  her  companion  distrait, 
and  he  felt  her  a  little  invasive.  In  a  short  while  they  came 
back  together,  and  Sepia  saw  Letty  under  the  great  bough  of 
the  Durnmelling  oak.  Godfrey  handed  her  down  the  rent, 
careful  himself  not  to  invade  Durnmelling  with  a  single  foot. 
She  ran  home,  and  up  to  a  certain  window  with  her  opera- 
glass.  But .  the  branches  and  foliage  of  the  huge  oak  would 
have  concealed  pairs  and  pairs  of  lovers. 

Godfrey  turned  toward  Letty.     She  had  not  stirred. 

"What  a  beautiful  creature  Miss  Yolland  is!"  she  said, 
looking  up  with  a  smile  of  welcome,  and  a  calmness  that  pre- 
vented the  slightest  suspicion  of  a  flattering  jealousy. 

"I  was  coming  to  you,"  returned  Godfrey.  "I  never  saw 
her  till  her  head  came  up  over  the  ha-ha. — Yes,  she  is  beautiful 
— at  least,  she  has  good  eyes." 

"  They  are  splendid  !  What  a  wife  she  would  make  for 
you,  Cousin  Godfrey  !    I  should  like  to  see  such  a  two." 

Letty  was  beyond  the  faintest  suggestion  of  coquetry.  Her 
words  drove  a  sting  to  the  heart  of  Godfrey.  He  turned  pale. 
But  not  a  word  would  he  have  spoken  then,  had  not  Letty  in 
her  innocence  gone  on  to  torture  him.  She  sprang  from  the 
ground. 

"Are  you  ill,  Cousin  Godfrey?"  she  cried  in  alarm,  and 
with  that  sweet  tremor  of  the  voice  that  shows  the  heart  is 
near.  "You  are  quite  white  ! — Oh,  dear  !  I've  said  something 
I  oughtn't  to  have  said  !  What  can  it  be  ?  Do  forgive  me, 
Cousin  Godfrey." 


390  MARY  MARSTOK 

In  her  childlike  anxiety  she  would  have  thrown  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  but  her  hands  only  reached  his  shoulders.  He 
drew  back  :  such  was  the  nature  of  the  man  that  every  sting 
tasted  of  offense.  But  he  mastered  himself,  and  in  his  turn, 
alarmed  at  the  idea  of  having  possibly  hurt  her,  caught  her 
hands  in  his.  As  they  stood  regarding  each  other  with  troubled 
eyes,  the  embankment  of  his  prudence  gave  way,  and  the 
stored  passion  broke  out. 

"  You  don't  mean  you  would  like  to  see  me  married,  Let- 
ty  ?  "  he  groaned. 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  do,  Cousin  Godfrey!  You  would  make 
such  a  lovely  husband  ! " 

"Ah!  I  thought  as  much  !  I  knew  you  never  cared  for 
me,  Letty  ! " 

He  dropped  her  hands,  and  turned  half  aside,  like  a  figure 
warped  with  fire. 

"  I  care  for  you  more  than  anybody  in  the  world — except, 
perhaps,  Mary,"  said  Letty  :  truthfulness  was  a  part  of  her. 

"  And  I  care  for  you  more  than  all  the  world  ! — more  than 
very  being — it  is  worthless  without  you.  0  Letty  !  your  eyes 
haunt  me  night  and  day !  I  love  you  with  my  whole 
soul." 

"How  kind  of  you,  Cousin  Godfrey!"  faltered  Letty, 
trembling,  and  not  knowing  what  she  said.  She  was  very 
frightened,  but  hardly  knew  why,  for  the  idea  of  Godfrey  in 
love  with  her  was  all  but  inconceivable.  Nevertheless,  its  ap- 
proach was  terrible.  Like  a  fascinated  bird  she  could  not  take 
her  eyes  off  his  face.  Her  knees  began  to  fail  her  ;  it  was  all 
she  could  do  to  stand.  But  Godfrey  was  full  of  himself,  and 
had  not  the  most  shadowy  suspicion  of  how  she  felt.  He  took 
her  emotion  for  a  favorable  sign,  and  stupidly  went  on  : 

"  Letty,  I  can't  help  it !  I  know  I  oughtn't  to  speak  to  you 
like  this — so  soon,  but  I  can't  keep  quiet  any  longer.  I  love 
you  more  than  the  universe  and  its  Maker.  A  thousand  times 
rather  would  I  cease  to  live,  than  live  without  you  to  love  me. 
I  have  loved  you  for  years  and  years — longer  than  I  know.  I 
was  loving  you  with  heart  and  soul  and  brain  and  eyes  when 
you  went  away  and  left  me." 


THORNWICK.  391 

"Cousin  Godfrey!"  shrieked  Letty,  "don't  you  know  I 
belong  to  Tom  ?  " 

And  she  dropped  like  one  lifeless  on  the  grass  at  his  feet. 

Godfrey  felt  as  if  suddenly  damned  ;  and  his  hell  was  death. 
Ho  stood  gazing  on  the  white  face.  The  world,  heaven,  God, 
and  nature  were  dead,  and  that  was  the  soul  of  it  all,  dead 
before  him  !  But  such  death  is  never  born  of  love.  This 
agony  was  but  the  fog  of  disappointed  self-love  ;  and  out  of  it 
suddenly  rose  what  seemed  a  new  power  to  live,  but  one  from 
a  lower  world  :  it  was  all  a  wretched  dream,  out  of  which  he 
was  no  more  to  issue,  in  which  he  must  go  on  for  ever,  dream- 
ing, yet  acting  as  one  wide  awake  !  Mechanically  he  stooped 
and  lifted  the  death-defying  lover  in  his  arms,  and  carried  her 
to  the  house.  He  felt  no  thrill  as  he  held  the  treasure  to  his 
heart.  It  was  the  merest  material  contact.  He  bore  her  to 
the  room  where  his  mother  sat,  laid  her  on  the  sofa,  said  he 
had  found  her  under  the  oak-tree — and  went  to  his  study, 
away  in  the  roof.  On  a  chair  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  he 
sat,  like  a  man  bereft  of  all.  Nothing  came  between  him  and 
suicide  but  an  infinite  scorn.  A  slow  rage  devoured  his  heart. 
Here  he  was,  a  man  who  knew  his  own  worth,  his  faithfulness, 
his  unchangeableness,  cast  over  the  wall  of  the  universe,  into 
the  waste  places,  among  the  broken  shards  of  ruin  !  If  there 
was  a  God — and  the  rage  in  his  heart  declared  his  being — why 
did  he  make  him  ?  To  make  him  for  such  a  misery  was  pure 
injustice,  was  willful  cruelty  !  Henceforward  he  would  live 
above  what  God  or  woman  could  do  to  him  !  He  rose  and  went 
to  the  hay-field,  whence  he  did  not  return  till  after  midnight. 

He  did  not  sleep,  but  he  came  to  a  resolution.  In  the 
morning  he  told  his  mother  that  he  wanted  a  change ;  now 
that  the  hay  was  safe,  he  would  have  a  run,  he  hardly  knew 
where — possibly  on  the  Continent ;  she  must  not  be  uneasy  if 
she  did  not  hear  from  him  for  a  week  or  two ;  perhaps  he 
would  have  a  look  at  the  pyramids.  The  old  lady  was  filled 
with  dismay  ;  but  scarcely  had  she  begun  to  expostulate  when 
she  saw  in  his  eyes  that  something  was  seriously  amiss,  and 
held  her  peace — she  had  had  to  learn  that  with  both  father 
and  son. 


392  MARY  MARSTOK 

Godfrey  went,  and  courted  distraction.  Ten  years  before, 
he  would  have  brooded  :  that  he  would  not  do  now  :  the  thing 
was  not  worth  it !  His  pride  was  strong  as  ever,  and  both 
helped  him  to  get  over  his  suffering,  and  prevented  him  from 
gaining  the  good  of  it.  He  intrenched  himself  in  his  pride. 
No  one  should  say  he  had  not  had  his  will !  He  was  a  strong 
man,  and  was  going  to  prove  it  to  himself  afresh  ! 

Thus  thought  Godfrey  ;  but  he  is  in  reality  a  weak  man  who 
must  have  recourse  to  pride  to  carry  him  through.  Only,  if  a 
man  has  not  love  enough  to  make  a  hero  of  him,  what  is  he  to 
do  ? 

He  was  away  a  month,  and  came  back  in  seeming  health  and 
spirits.  But  it  was  no  small  relief  to  him  to  find  on  his  arrival 
that  Letty  was  no  longer  at  Thornwick. 

She  had  gone  through  a  sore  time.  To  have  made  Godfrey 
unhappy,  made  her  miserable  ;  but  how  was  she  to  help  it  ? 
She  belonged  to  Tom  !  Not  once  did  she  entertain  the  thought 
of  ceasing  to  be  Tom's.  She  did  not  even  say  to  herself,  what 
would  Tom  do  if  she  forgot  and  forsook  him — and  for  what  he 
could  not  help  !  for  having  left  her  because  death  took  him 
away  !  But  what  was  she  to  do  ?  She  must  not  remain  where 
she  was.     No  more  must  she  tell  his  mother  why  she  went. 

She  wrote  to  Mary,  and  told  her  she  could  not  stay  much 
longer.  They  were  very  kind,  she  said,  but  she  must  be  gone 
before  Godfrey  came  back. 

Mary  suspected  the  truth.  The  fact  that  Letty  did  not  give 
her  any  reason  was  almost  enough.  The  supposition  also  ren- 
dered intelligible  the  strange  mixture  of  misery  and  hardness 
in  Godfrey's  behavior  at  the  time  of  Letty's  old  mishap.  She 
answered,  begging  her  to  keep  her  mind  easy  about  the  future, 
and  her  friend  informed  of  whatever  concerned  her. 

This  much  from  Mary  was  enough  to  set  Letty  at  compara- 
tive ease.  She  began  to  recover  strength,  and  was  able  to  write 
a  letter  to  Godfrey,  to  leave  where  he  would  find  it,  in  his 
study. 

It  was  a  lovely  letter — the  utterance  of  asimple,  childlike 
spirit — with  much  in  it,  too,  I  confess,  that  was  but  prettily 
childish.     She  poured  out  on  Godfrey  the  affection  of  a  woman- 


THORN  WICK.  393 

child.  She  told  him  what  a  reverence  and  love  he  had  been  to 
her  always  ;  told  him,  too,  that  it  would  change  her  love  into 
fear,  perhaps  something  worse,  if  he  tried  to  make  her  forget 
Tom.  She  told  him  he  was  much  too  grand  for  her  to  dare 
love  him  in  that  way,  but  she  could  look  up  to  him  like  an 
angel — only  h,e  must  not  come  between  her  and  Tom.  Nothing 
could  be  plainer,  simpler,  honester,  or  stronger,  than  the  way 
the  little  woman  wrote  her  mind  to  the  great  man.  Had  he 
been  worthy  of  her,  he  might  even  yet,  with  her  help,  have  got 
above  his  passion  in  a  grand  way,  and  been  a  great  man  indeed. 
But,  as  so  many  do,  he  only  sat  upon  himself,  kept  himself 
down,  and  sank  far  below  his  passion. 

When  he  went  to  his  study  the  day  after  his  return,  he  saw 
the  letter.  His  heart  leaped  like  a  wild  thing  in  a  trap  at  sight 
of  the  ill-shaped,  childish  writing  ;  but — will  my  lady  reader 
believe  it  ? — the  first  thought  that  shot  through  it  was — "  She 
shall  find  it  too  late  !  I  am  not  one  to  be  left  and  taken  at 
will  ! "  When  he  read  it,  however,  it  was  with  a  curling  lip 
of  scorn  at  the  childishness  of  the  creature  to  whom  he  had  of- 
fered the  heart  of  Godfrey  Wardour.  Instead  of  admiring  the 
lovely  devotion  of  the  girl-widow  to  her  boy-husband,  he  scorned 
himself  for  having  dreamed  of  a  creature  who  could  not  only 
love  a  fool  like  Tom  Helmer,  but  go  on  loving  him  after  he  was 
dead,  and  that  even  when  Godfrey  Wardour  had  condescended 
to  let  her  know  he  loved  her.  It  was  thus  the  devil  befooled 
him.  Perhaps  the  worst  devil  a  man  can  be  possessed  withal, 
is  himself.  In  mere  madness,  the  man  is  beside  himself  ;  but 
in  this  case  he  is  inside  himself  ;  the  presiding,  indwelling,  in- 
spiring spirit  of  him  is  himself,  and  that  is  the  hardest  of  all 
to  cast  out.  Godfrey  rose  from  the  reading  of  that  letter  cured, 
as  he  called  it.  But  it  was  a  cure  that  left  the  wound  open  as 
a  door  to  the  entrance  of  evil  things.  He  tore  the  letter  into  a 
thousand  pieces,  and  threw  them  into  the  empty  grate — not 
even  showed  it  the  respect  of  burning  it  with  fire. 

Mary  had  got  her  affairs  settled,  and  was  again  in  the  old 
place,  the  hallowed  temple  of  so  many  holy  memories.  I  do 
not  forget  it  was  a  shop  I  call  a  temple.  In  that  shop  God  had 
been  worshiped  with  holiest  worship — that  is,  obedience — and 


394  MARY  MARSTON. 

would  be  again.  Neither  do  I  forget  that  the  devil  had  been 
worshiped  there  too — in  what  temple  is  he  not  ?  He  has  fallen 
like  lightning  from  heaven,  but  has  not  yet  been  cast  out  of 
the  earth.  In  that  shop,  however,  he  would  be  worshiped  no 
more  for  a  season. 

At  once  she  wrote  to  Letty,  saying  the  room  which  had 
been  hers  was  at  her  service  as  soon  as  she  pleased  to  occupy  it: 
she  would  take  her  father's. 

Letty  breathed  a  deep  breath  of  redemption,  and  made  haste 
to  accept  the  offer.  But  to  let  Mrs.  Wardour  know  her  resolve 
was  a  severe  strain  on  her  courage. 

I  will  not  give  the  conversation  that  followed  her  announce- 
ment that  she  was  going  to  visit  Mary  Marston.  Her  aunt  met 
it  with  scorn  and  indignation.  Ingratitude,  laziness,  love  of 
low  company,  all  the  old  words  of  offense  she  threw  afresh  in 
her  face.  But  Letty  could  not  help  being  pleased  to  find  that 
her  aunt's  storm  no  longer  swamped  her  boat.  When  she  be- 
gan, however,  to  abuse  Mary,  calling  her  a  low  creature,  who 
actually  gave  up  an  independent  position  to  put  herself  at  the 
beck  and  call  of  a  fine  lady,  Letty  grew  angry. 

"I  must  not  sit  and  hear  you  call  Mary  names,  aunt,"  she 
said.  "  When  you  cast  me  out,  she  stood  by  me.  You  do  not 
understand  her.  She  is  the  only  friend  I  ever  had — except 
Tom." 

"You  dare,  you  thankless  hussy,  to  say  such  a  thing  in  the 
house  where  you've  been  clothed  and  fed  and  sheltered  for  so 
many  years  !  You're  the  child  of  your  father  with  a  ven- 
geance !     Get  out  of  my  sight !  " 

"  Aunt — "  said  Letty,  rising. 

"  No  aunt  of  yours  ! "  interrupted  the  wrathful  woman. 

"  Mrs.  Wardour,"  said  Letty,  with  dignity,  "  you  have  been 
my  benefactor,  but  hardly  my  friend  :  Mary  has  taught  me 
the  difference.  I  owe  you  more  than  you  will  ever  give  me  the 
chance  of  repaying  you.  But  what  friendship  could  have  stood 
for  an  hour  the  hard  words  you  have  been  in  the  way  of  giving 
me,  as  far  back  as  I  can  remember  !  Hard  words  take  all  the 
sweetness  from  shelter.  Mary  is  the  only  Christian  /  have 
ever  known." 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY  MABSTOK  395 

"  So  we  are  all  pagans,  except  your  low-lived  lady's-maid  ! 
Upon  my  word  ! " 

"She  makes  me  feel,  often,  often,"  said  Letty,  bursting 
into  tears,  "as  if  I  were  with  Jesus  himself— as  if  he  must  be 
in  the  room  somewhere." 

So  saying,  she  left  her,  and  went  to  put  up  her  things. 
Mrs.  Wardour  locked  the  door  of  the  room  where  she  sat,  and 
refused  to  see  or  speak  to  her  again.  Letty  went  away,  and 
walked  to  Testbridge. 

"  Godfrey  will  do  something  to  make  her  understand,"  she 
said  to  herself,  weeping  as  she  walked. 

"Whether  Godfrey  ever  did,  I  can  not  tell. 


CHAPTER  L. 

WILLIAM  AND  MART  MARSTON. 

The  same  day  on  which  Turnbull  opened  his  new  shop,  a 
man  was  seen  on  a  ladder  painting  out  the  sign  above  the  old 
one.     But  the  paint  took  time  to  dry. 

The  same  day,  also,  Mary  returned  to  Testbridge,  and,  go- 
ing in  by  the  kitchen-door,  went  up  to  her  father's  room,  of 
which  and  of  her  own  she  had  kept  the  keys — to  the  indigna- 
tion of  Turnbull,  who  declared  he  did  not  know  how  to  get  on 
without  them  for  storage.  But,  for  all  his  bluster,  he  was 
afraid  of  Mary,  and  did  not  dare  touch  anything  she  had  left. 

That  night  she  spent  alone  in  the  house.  But  she  could 
not  sleep.  She  got  up  and  went  down  to  the  shop.  It  was  a 
bright,  moonlit  night,  and  all  the  house,  even  where  the  moon 
could  not  enter,  was  full  of  glimmer  and  gleam,  except  the 
shop.  There  she  lighted  a  candle,  sat  down  on  a  pile  of  goods, 
and  gave  herself  up  to  memories  of  the  past.  Back  and  back 
went  her  thoughts  as  far  as  she  could  send  them.  God  was 
everywhere  in  all  the  story  ;  and  the  clearer  she  saw  him  there 
the  surer  she  was  that  she  would  find  him  as  she  went  on.  She 
was  neither  sad  nor  fearful. 


396  MART  MARSTOK 

The  dead  hours  of  the  night  came,  that  valley  of  the  shad- 
ow of  death  where  faith  seems  to  grow  weary  and  sleep,  and 
all  the  things  of  the  shadow  wake  up  and  come  out  and  say, 
"  Here  we  are,  and  there  is  nothing  but  us  and  our  kind  in  the 
universe  ! "  They  woke  up  and  came  out  upon  Mary  now,  but 
she  fought  them  off.  Either  there  is  mighty,  triumphant  life 
at  the  root  and  apex  of  all  things,  or  life  is  not — and  whence, 
then,  the  power  of  dreaming  horrors  ?  It  is  life  alone — life 
imperfect — that  can  fear  ;  death  can  not  fear.  Even  the  terror 
that  walketh  by  night  is  a  proof  that  I  live,  and  that  it  shall 
not  prevail  against  me.  And  to  Mary,  besides  her  heavenly 
Father,  her  William  Marston  seemed  near  all  the  time.  Where- 
ever  she  turned  she  saw  the  signs  of  him,  and  she  pleased  her- 
self to  think  that  perhaps  he  was  there  to  welcome  her.  Bat 
it  would  not  have  made  her  the  least  sad  to  know  for  certain 
that  he  was  far  off,  and  would  never  come  near  her  again  in 
this  world.  She  knew  that,  spite  of  time  and  space,  she  was 
and  must  be  near  him  so  long  as  she  loved  and  did  the  truth. 
She  knew  there  is  no  bond  so  strong,  none  so  close,  none  so 
lasting  as  the  truth.  In  God  alone,  who  is  the  truth,  can 
creatures  meet. 

The  place  was  left  in  sad  confusion  and  dirt,  and  she  did 
not  a  little  that  night  to  restore  order  at  least.  But  at  length 
she  was  tired,  and  went  up  to  her  room. 

On  the  first  landing  there  was  a  window  to  the  street.  She 
stopped  and  looked  out,  candle  in  hand,  but  drew  back  with  a 
start :  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way  stood  a  man,  looking  up, 
she  thought,  at  the  house  !  She  hastened  to  her  room,  and  to 
bed.  If  God  was  not  watching,  no  waking  was  of  use  ;  and  if 
God  was  watching,  she  might  sleep  in  peace.  She  did  sleep, 
and  woke  refreshed. 

Her  first  care  in  the  morning  was  to  write  to  Letty — with 
the  result  I  have  set  down.  The  next  thing  she  did  was  to  go 
and  ask  Beenie  to  give  her  some  breakfast.  The  old  woman 
was  delighted  to  see  her,  and  ready  to  lock  her  door  at  once 
and  go  back  to  her  old  quarters.  They  returned  together, 
while  Testbridge  was  yet  but  half  awake. 

Many  things  had  to  be  done  before  the  shop  could  be 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY  MARSTON.  397 

opened.  Beenie  went  after  charwomen,  and  soon  a  great 
bustle  of  cleaning  arose.  But  the  door  was  kept  shut,  and 
the  front  windows. 

In  the  afternoon  Letty  came  fresh  from  misery  into  more 
than  counterbalancing  joy.  She  took  but  time  to  put  off  her 
bonnet  and  shawl,  and  was  presently  at  work  helping  Mary, 
cheerful  as  hope  and  a  good  conscience  could  make  her. 

Mary  was  in  no  hurry  to  open  the  shop.  There  was  "  stock 
to  be  taken,"  many  things  had  to  be  rearranged,  and  not  a 
few  things  to  be  added,  before  she  could  begin  with  comfort ; 
and  she  must  see  to  it  all  herself,  for  she  was  determined  to 
engage  no  assistant  until  she  could  give  her  orders  without 
hesitation. 

She  was  soon  satisfied  that  she  could  not  do  better  than 
make  a  proposal  to  Letty  which  she  had  for  some  time  contem- 
plated— namely,  that  she  should  take  up  her  permanent  abode 
with  her,  and  help  her  in  the  shop.  Letty  was  charmed,  nor 
ever  thought  of  the  annoyance  it  would  be  to  her  aunt.  Mary 
had  thought  of  that,  but  saw  that,  for  Letty  to  allow  the  preju- 
dices of  her  aunt  to  influence  her,  would  be  to  order  her  life 
not  by  the  law  of  that  God  whose  Son  was  a  workingman, 
but  after  the  whim  and  folly  of  an  ill-educated  old  woman. 
A  new  spring  of  life  seemed  to  bubble  up  in  Letty  the  moment 
Mary  mentioned  the  matter ;  and  in  serving  she  soon  proved 
herself  one  after  Mary's  own  heart.  Letty's  day  was  henceforth 
without  a  care,  and  her  rest  was  sweet  to  her.  Many  cus- 
tomers were  even  more  pleased  with  her  than  with  Mary.  Be- 
fore long,  Mary,  besides  her  salary,  gave  her  a  small  share  in 
the  business. 

Mrs.  Wardour  carried  her  custom  to  the  Turnbulls. 

When  the  paint  was  dry  which  obliterated  the  old  sign, 
people  saw  the  new  one  begin  with  an  M.,  and  the  sign-writer 
went  on  until  there  stood  in  full,  Mary  Marston.  Mr.  Brett 
hinted  he  would  rather  have  seen  it  without  the  Christian 
name  ;  but  Mary  insisted  she  would  do  and  be  nothing  she 
would  not  hold  just  that  name  to  ;  and  on  the  sign  her  own 
name,  neither  more  nor  less,  should  stand.  She  would  have 
liked,  she  said,  to  make  it  William  and  Mary  Marston ;  for 


398  MARY  MARSTOK 

the  business  was  to  go  on  exactly  as  her  father  had  taught  her  ; 
the  spirit  of  her  father  should  never  be  out  of  the  place  ;  and 
if  she  failed,  of  which  she  had  no  fear,  she  would  fail  trying 
to  carry  out  his  ideas — but  people  were  too  dull  to  understand, 
and  she  therefore  set  the  sign  so  in  her  heart  only. 

Her  old  friends  soon  began  to  come  about  her  again,  and 
it  was  not  many  weeks  before  she  saw  fit  to  go  to  London  to 
add  to  her  stock. 

The  evening  of  her  return,  as  she  and  Letty  sat  over  a  late 
tea,  a  silence  fell,  during  which  Letty  had  a  brooding  fit. 

"I  wonder  how  Cousin  Godfrey  is  getting  on  ?"  she  said 
at  last,  and  smiled  sadly. 

"How  do  you  mean  getting  onV  asked  Mary. 

"I  was  wondering  whether  Miss  Yolland  and  he — " 

Mary  started  from  her  seat,  white  as  the  table-cloth. 

" Letty  !"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  utter  dismay,  "you  don't 
mean  that  woman  is — is  making  friends  with  Mm  ?  " 

"I  saw  them  together  more  than  once,  and  they  seemed — 
well,  on  very  good  terms." 

"Then  it  is  all  over  with  him!"  cried  Mary,  in  despair. 
"  0  Letty !  what  is  to  be  done  ?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
before  ?  He'll  be  madly  in  love  with  her  by  this  time  !  They 
always  are." 

"But  where's  the  harm,  Mary?  She's  a  very  handsome 
lady,  and  of  a  good  family." 

"We're  all  of  good  enough  family,"  said  Mary,  a  little  pet- 
ulantly. "  But  that  Miss  Yolland — Letty — that  Miss  Yolland 
— she's  a  bad  woman,  Letty." 

"  I  never  heard  you  say  such  a  hard  word  of  anybody  before, 
Mary  !    It  frightens  me  to  hear  you." 

"It's  a  true  word  of  her,  Letty." 

"  How  can  you  be  so  sure  ?  " 

Mary  was  silent.  There  was  that  about  Letty  that  made 
the  maiden  shrink  from  telling  the  married  woman  what  she 
knew.  Besides,  in  so  far  as  Tom  had  been  concerned,  she  could 
not  bring  herself,  even  without  mentioning  his  name,  to  talk 
of  him  to  his  wife  :  there  was  no  evil  to  be  prevented  and  no 
good  to  be  done  by  it.     If  Letty  was  ever  to  know  those  pas- 


WILLIAM  AND  MART  MARSTON.  399 

sages  in  his  life,  she  must  hear  them  first  in  high  places,  and 
from  the  lips  of  the  repentant  man  himself  ! 

"I  can  not  tell  you,  Letty,"  she  said.  "You  know  the 
two  bonds  of  friendship  are  the  right  of  silence  and  the  duty 
of  speech.  I  dare  say  you  have  some  things  which,  truly  as  I 
know  you  love  me,  you  neither  wish  nor  feel  at  liberty  to  tell 
me." 

Letty  thought  of  what  had  so  lately  passed  between  her  and 
her  cousin  Godfrey,  and  felt  almost  guilty.  She  never  thought 
of  one  of  the  many  things  Tom  had  done  or  said  that  had  cut 
her  to  the  heart ;  those  had  no  longer  any  existence.  They 
were  swallowed  in  the  gulf  of  forgetful  love — dismissed  even  as 
God  casts  the  sins  of  his  children  behind  his  back  :  behind  God's 
back  is  just  nowhere.  She  did  not  answer,  and  again  there 
was  silence  for  a  time,  during  which  Mary  kept  walking  about 
the  room,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her,  the  fingers  interlaced, 
and  twisted  with  a  strain  almost  fierce. 

"  There's  no  time  !  there's  no  time  !  "  she  cried  at  length. 
"How  are  we  to  find  out  ?  And  if  we  knew  all  about  it,  what 
could  we  do  ?    0  Letty  !  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"Anyhow,  Mary  dear,  you  can't  be  to  blame  !  One  would 
think  you  fancied  yourself  accountable  for  Cousin  Godfrey  ! " 

"  I  am  accountable  for  him.  He  has  done  more  for  me 
than  any  man  but  my  father  ;  and  I  know  what  he  does  not 
know,  and  what  the  ignorance  of  will  be  his  ruin.  I  know 
that  one  of  the  best  men  in  the  world  " — so  in  her  agony  she 
called  him — "is  in  danger  of  being  married  by  one  of  the  worst 
women  ;  and  I  can't  bear  it — I  can't  bear  it ! " 

"  But  what  can  you  do,  Mary  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  want  to  know,"  returned  Mary,  with  irrita- 
tion.   "  What  am  I  to  do  ?    What  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"If  he's  in  love  with  her,  he  wouldn't  believe  a  word  any 
one — even  you — told  him  against  her." 

"That  is  true,  I  suppose  ;  but  it  won't  clear  me.  I  must 
do  something." 

She  threw  herself  on  the  couch  with  a  groan. 

"  It's  horrid  !  "  she  cried,  and  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow. 

All  this  time  Letty  had  been  so  bewildered  by  Mary's  agita- 


400  MART  MARSTOK 

tion,  and  the  cause  of  it  was  to  her  so  vague,  that  apprehension 
for  her  cousin  did  not  wake.  But  when  Mary  was  silent,  then 
came  the  thought  that,  if  she  had  not  so  repulsed  him — but 
she  could  not  help  it,  and  would  not  think  in  that  direction. 

Mary  started  from  the  couch,  and  began  again  to  pace  the 
room,  wringing  her  hands,  and  walking  up  and  down  like  a 
wild  beast  in  its  cage.  It  was  so  unlike  her  to  be  thus  seri- 
ously discomposed,  that  Letty  began  to  be  frightened.  She  sat 
silent  and  looked  at  her.  Then  spoke  the  spirit  of  truth  in  the 
scholar,  for  the  teacher  was  too  troubled  to  hear.  She  rose,  and 
going  up  to  Mary  from  behind,  put  her  arm  round  her,  and 
whispered  in  her  ear  : 

"Mary,  why  don't  you  ask  Jesus  ?" 

Mary  stopped  short,  and  looked  at  Letty.  But  she  was  not 
thinking  about  her  ;  she  was  questioning  herself :  why  had  she 
not  done  as  Letty  said  ?  Something  was  wrong  with  her :  that 
was  clear,  if  nothing  else  was  !  She  threw  herself  again  on  the 
couch,  and  Letty  saw  her  body  heaving  with  her  sobs.  Then 
Letty  was  more  frightened,  and  feared  she  had  done  wrong. 
Was  it  her  part  to  remind  Mary  of  what  she  knew  so  much 
better  than  she  ? 

"  But,  then,  I  was  only  referring  her  to  herself  !  "  she 
thought. 

A  few  minutes,  and  Mary  rose.  Her.  face  was  wet  and 
white,  but  perplexity  had  vanished  from  it,  and  resolution  had 
taken  its  place.  She  threw  her  arms  round  Letty,  and  kissed 
her,  and  held  her  face  against  hers.  Letty  had  never  seen  in 
her  such  an  expression  of  emotion  and  tenderness. 

"I have  found  out,  Letty,  dear,"  she  said.  "Thank  you, 
thank  you,  Letty  !    You  are  a  true  sister." 

"What  have  you  found  out,  Mary  ?  " 

"I  have  found  out  why  I  did  not  go  at  once  to  ask  Him 
what  I  ought  to  do.  It  was  just  because  I  was  afraid  o{  what 
he  would  tell  me  to  do." 

And  with  that  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks  afresh. 

"  Then  you  know  now  what  to  do  ?  "  asked  Letty. 

"Yes,"  answered  Mary,  and  sat  down. 


A  HARD  TASK.  401 

CHAPTER  LI. 

A      HAK  D      TASK. 

The  next  morning,  leaving  the  shop  to  Letty,  Mary  set  out 
immediately  after  breakfast  to  go  to  Thornwick.  But  the  duty 
she  had  there  to  perform  was  so  distasteful,  that  she  felt  her 
very  limbs  refuse  the  office  required  of  them.  They  trembled 
so  under  her  that  she  could  scarcely  walk.  She  sent,  therefore, 
to  the  neighboring  inn  for  a  fly.  All  the  way,  as  she  went, 
she  was  hoping  she  might  be  spared  an  encounter  with  Mrs. 
Wardour  ;  but  the  old  lady  heard  the  fly,  saw  her  get  out,  and, 
imagining  she  had  brought  Letty  back  in  some  fresh  trouble, 
hastened  to  prevent  either  of  them  from  entering  the  house. 
The  door  stood  open,  and  they  met  on  the  broad  step. 

"  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Wardour,"  said  Mary,  trying  to  speak 
without  betraying  emotion. 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Marston,"  returned  Mrs.  Wardour, 
grimly. 

"Is  Mr.  Wardour  at  home  ?"  asked  Mary. 

"  What  is  your  business  with  Mm  ?  "  rejoined  the  mother. 

"Yes  ;  it  is  with  him,"  returned  Mary,  as  if  she  had  mis- 
taken her  question,  and  there  had  been  a  point  Of  exclamation 
after  the  What. 

"  About  that  hussy  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  whom  you  call  by  the  name,"  replied  Mary, 
who  would  have  been  glad  indeed  to  find  a  fellow-protector  of 
Godfrey  in  his  mother. 

"  You  know  well  enough  whom  I  mean.  Whom  should  it 
be,  but  Letty  Lovel !  " 

"  My  business  has  nothing  to  do  with  her,"  answered  Mary. 

"  Whom  has  it  to  do  with,  then  ?  " 

"  With  Mr.  Wardour." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Only  Mr.  Wardour  himself  must  hear  it.  It  is  his  busi- 
ness, not  mine." 

"I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 


402  MARY  MABSTOK 

"I  have  no  desire  to  give  you  the  least  trouble  about  it," 
rejoined  Mary. 

"You  can't  see  Mr.  Wardour.  He's  not  one  to  be  at  the 
beck  and  call  of  every  silly  woman  that  wants  him." 

"  Then  I  will  write,  and  tell  him  I  called,  but  you  would 
not  allow  me  to  see  him." 

"I  will  give  him  a  message,  if  you  like." 

"Then  tell  him  what  I  have  just  said.  I  am  going  home 
to  write  to  him.     Good  morning." 

She  was  getting  into  the  fly  again,  when  Mrs.  Wardour,  re- 
flecting that  it  must  needs  be  something  of  consequence  that 
brought  her  there  so  early  in  a  fly,  and  made  her"  show  such  a 
determined  front  to  so  great  a  personage  as  herself,  spoke  again. 

"  I  will  tell  him  you  are  here  ;  but  you  must  not  blame  me 
if  he  does  not  choose  to  see  you.  We  don't  feel  you  have  be- 
haved well  about  that  girl." 

"  Letty  is  my  friend.  I  have  behaved  to  her  as  if  she  were 
my  sister." 

"You  had  no  business  to  behave  to  her  as  if  she  were  your 
sister.     You  had  no  right  to  tempt  her  down  to  your  level." 

"Is  it  degradation  to  earn  one's  own  living  ?" 

"You  had  nothing  to  do  with  her.  She  would  have  done 
very  well  if  you  had  but  let  her  alone." 

"Excuse  me,  ma'am,  but  I  have  some  right  in  Letty.  I 
am  sorry  to  have  to  assert  it,  but  she  would  have  been  dead 
long  ago  if  I  had  behaved  to  her  as  you  would  have  me." 

"That  was  all  her  own  fault." 

"I  will  not  talk  with  you  about  it :  you  do  not  know  the 
circumstances  to  which  I  refer.  I  request  to  see  Mr.  Wardour. 
I  have  no  time  to  waste  in  useless  altercation." 

Mary  was  angry,  and  it  did  her  good ;  it  made  her  fitter  to 
face  the  harder  task  before  her. 

That  moment  they  heard  the  step  of  Godfrey  approaching 
through  a  long  passage  in  the  rear.  His  mother  went  into  the 
parlor,  leaving  the  door,  which  was  close  to  where  Mary  stood, 
ajar.  Godfrey,  reaching  the  hall,  saw  Mary,  and  came  up  to 
her  with  a  formal  bow,  and  a  face  flushed  with  displeasure. 

"May  I  speak  to  you  alone,  Mr."  Wardour  ?"  said  Mary. 


A  HARD   TASK.  403 

"  Can  you  not  say  what  you  have  to  say  here  ?" 

"It  is  impossible." 

"Then  I  am  curious  to  know—" 

"Let  your  curiosity  plead  for  me,  then." 

With  a  sigh  of  impatience  he  yielded,  and  led  the  way  to 
the  drawing-room,  which  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall. 
Mary  turned  and  shut  the  door  he  left  open. 

"Why  all  this  mystery,  Miss  Marston  ?"  he  said.  "  I  am 
not  aware  of  anything  between  you  and  me  that  can  require 
secrecy." 

He  spoke  with  unconcealed  scorn. 

"When  I  have  made  my  communication,  you  will  at  least 
allow  secrecy  to  have  been  necessary." 

"Some  objects  may  require  it !"  said  Wardour,  in  a  tone 
itself  an  insult. 

"  Mr.  Wardour,"  returned  Mary,  "  I  am  here  for  your  sake, 
not  my  own.  May  I  beg  you  will  not  render  a  painful  duty  yet 
more  difficult  ?" 

"  May  1  beg,  then,  that  you  will  be  as  brief  as  possible  ?  I 
am  more  than  doubtful  whether  what  you  have  to  say  will  seem 
to  me  of  so  much  consequence  as  you  suppose." 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  to  find  it  so." 

"  I  can  not  give  you  more  than  ten  minutes." 

Mary  looked  at  her  watch. 

"You  have  lately  become  acquainted  with  Miss  Yolland,  I 
am  told,"  she  began. 

"Whew  !"  whistled  Godfrey,  yet  hardly  as  if  he  were  sur- 
prised. 

"  I  have  been  compelled  to  know  a  good  deal  of  that  lady." 

"As  lady's-maid  in  her  family,  I  believe." 

"Yes,"  said  Mary — then  changing  her  tone  after  a  slight 
pause,  went  on  :  "Mr.  Wardour,  I  owe  you  more  than  I  can  , 
ever  thank  you  for.  I  strongly  desire  to  fulfill  the  obligation 
your  goodness  has  laid  upon  me,  though  I  can  never  discharge 
it.  For  the  sake  of  that  obligation — for  your  sake,  I  am  risk- 
ing much — namely,  your  opinion  of  me." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"I  Jcnoio  Miss  Yolland  to  be  a  woman  without  principle. 


404  MARY  MARSTON. 

I  know  it  by  the  testimony  of  my  own  eyes,  and  from  her  own 
confession.  She  is  capable  of  playing  a  cold-hearted,  cruel 
game  for  her  own  ends.  Be  persuaded  to  consult  Mr.  Ked- 
main  before  you  commit  yourself.  Ask  him  if  Miss  Yolland 
is  fit  to  be  the  wife  of  an  honest  man. " 

There  was  nothing  in  Godfrey's  countenance  but  growing 
rage.  Turning  to  the  door,  Mary  would  have  gone  without 
another  word. 

"Stay!"  cried  Godfrey,  in  a  voice  of  suppressed  fury. 
"  Do  not  dare  to  go  until  I  have  told  you  that  you  are  a  vile 
slanderer.  I  knew  something  of  what  I  had  to  expect,  but 
you  should  never  have  entered  this  room  had  I  known  how 
far  your  effrontery  could  carry  you.  Listen  to  me  :  if  any- 
thing more  than  the  character  of  your  statement  had  been 
necessary  to  satisfy  me  of  the  falsehood  of  every  word  of  it, 
you  have  given  it  me  in  your  reference  to  Mr.  Eedmain — a 
man  whose  life  has  rendered  him  unfit  for  the  acquaintance, 
not  to  say  the  confidence  of  any  decent  woman.  This  is  a 
plot — for  what  final  object,  God  knows — between  you  and 
him  !  I  should  be  doing  my  duty  were  I  to  expose  you  both 
to  the  public  scorn  you  deserve." 

"Now  I  am  clear !"  said  Mary  to  herself,  but  aloud,  and 
stood  erect,  with  glowing  face  and  eyes  of  indignation  :  "Then 
why  not  do  your  duty,  Mr.  Wardour  ?  I  should  be  glad  of 
anything  that  would  open  your  eyes.  But  Miss  Yolland  will 
never  give  Mr.  Eedmain  such  an  opportunity.  Nor  does  he 
desire  it,  for  he  might  have  had  it  long  ago,  by  the  criminal 
prosecution  of  a  friend  of  hers.  For  my  part,  I  should  be  sorry 
to  see  her  brought  to  public  shame." 

"Leave  the  house  !"  said  Godfrey  through  his  teeth,  and 
almost  under  his  breath. 

"I  am  sorry  it  is  so  hard  to  distinguish  between  truth  and 
falsehood,"  said  Mary,  as  she  went  to  the  door. 

She  walked  out,  got  into  the  fly,  and  drove  home ;  went 
into  the  shop,  and  served  the  rest  of  the  morning ;  but  in  the 
afternoon  was  obliged  to  lie  down,  and  did  not  appear  again 
for  three  days. 

The  reception  she  had  met  with  did  not  much  surprise  her  : 


A  HARD   TASK.  405 

plainly  Sepia  had  been  before  her.  She  had  pretended  to  make 
Godfrey  her  confidant,  had  invented,  dressed,  and  poured  out 
injuries  to  him,  and  so  blocked  up  the  way  to  all  testimony  un- 
favorable to  her.  Was  there  ever  man  in  more  pitiable  po- 
sition ? 

It  added  to  Godfrey's  rage  that  he  had  not  a  doubt  Mary 
knew  what  had  passed  between  Letty  and  him.  That,  he  rea- 
soned, was  at  the  root  of  it  all :  she  wanted  to  bring  them 
together  yet :  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  for  her  to  have  her 
bosom-friend  mistress  of  Thornwick  !  What  a  cursed  thing 
he  should  ever  have  been  civil  to  her  !  And  what  a  cursed 
fool  he  was  ever  to  have  cared  a  straw  for  such  a  low- 
minded  creature  as  that  Letty  !  Thank  Heaven,  he  was  cured 
of  that ! 

Cured  ? — He  had  fallen  away  from  love — that  was  all  the 
cure  ! 

Like  the  knight  of  the  Eed  Cross,  he  was  punished  for 
abandoning  Una,  by  falling  in  love  with  Duessa.  His  rage 
against  Letty,  just  because  of  her  faithfulness,  had  cast  him  an 
easy  prey  into  the  arms  of  the  clinging  Sepia. 

And  now  what  more  could  Mary  do  ?  Just  one  thing  was 
left  :  Mr.  Eedmain  could  satisfy  Mr.  Wardour  of  the  fact  he 
would  not  hear  from  her  ! — so,  at  least,  thought  Mary  yet.  If 
Mr.  Eedmain  would  take  the  trouble  to  speak  to  him,  Mr. 
Wardour  must  be  convinced  !  However  true  might  be  what 
Mr.  Wardour  had  said  about  Mr.  Eedmain,  fact  remained  fact 
about  Sepia ! 

She  sat  down  and  wrote  the  following  letter  : 

"  Sir  :  I  hardly  know  how  to  address  you  without  seeming 
to  take  a  liberty  ;  at  the  same  time  I  can  not  help  hoping  you 
trust  me  enough  to  believe  that  I  would  not  venture  such  a  re- 
quest as  I  am  about  to  make,  without  good  reason.  Should 
you  kindly  judge  me  not  to  presume,  and  should  you  be  well 
enough  in  health,  which  I  fear  may  not  be  the  case,  would  you 
mind  coming  to  see  me  here  in  my  shop  ?  I  think  you  must 
knoAv  it — it  used  to  be  Turnbull  and  Marston — the  Marston 
was  my  father.     You  will  see  my  name  over  the  door.     Any 


4:06  MARY  MARSTOK 

hour  from  morning  to  night  will  do  for  me  ;  only  please  let  it 
be  as  soon  as  you  can  make  it  convenient. 
"I  am,  sir, 
"  Your  humble  and  grateful  servant, 

"Mary  Marston." 

"What  the  deuce  is  she  grateful  to  me  f or  ?"  grumbled 
Mr.  Eedmain  when  he  read  it.  "I  never  did  anything  for 
her  !  By  Jove,  the  gypsy  herself  wouldn't  let  me  !  I  vow 
she's  got  more  brains  of  her  own  than  any  half-dozen  women  I 
ever  had  to  do  with  before  !  " 

The  least  thing  bearing  the  look  of  plot,  or  intrigue,  or 
secret  to  be  discovered  or  heard,  was  enough  for  Mr.  Eedmain. 
What  he  had  of  pride  was  not  of  the  same  sort  as  Wardour's  : 
it  made  no  pretense  to  dignity,  and  was  less  antagonistic,  so 
long  at  least  as  there  was  no  talk  of  good  motive  or  righteous 
purpose.  Far  from  being  offended  with  Mary's  request,  he  got 
up  at  once,  though  indeed  he  was  rather  unwell  and  dreading 
an  attack,  ordered  his  brougham,  and  drove  to  Testbridge. 
There,  careful  of  secrecy,  he  went  to  several  shops,  and  bought 
something  at  each,  but  pretended  not  to  find  the  thing  he 
wanted. 

He  then  said  he  would  lunch  at  the  inn,  told  his  coachman 
to  put  up,  and,  while  his  meal  was  getting  ready,  went  to  Mary's 
shop,  which  was  but  a  few  doors  off.  There  he  asked  for  a 
certain  outlandish  stuff,  and  insisted  on  looking  over  a  bale 
not  yet  unpacked.  Mary  understood  him,  and,  whispering 
Letty  to  take  him  to  the  parlor,  followed  a  minute  after. 

As  soon  as  she  entered — 

"Come,  now,  what's  it  all  about  ?"  he  said. 

Mary  began  at  once  to  tell  him,  as  directly  as  she  could, 
that  she  was  under  obligation  to  Mr.  Wardour  of  Thorn  wick, 
and  that  she  had  reason  to  fear  Miss  Yolland  was  trying  to  get 
a  hold  of  him— "And  you  know  what  that  would  be  for  any 
man  ! "  she  said. 

"No,  by  Jove  !  I  don't,"  he  answered.  "What  would  it 
be?" 

"Utter  ruin,"  replied  Mary. 


A  HARD   TASK.  407 

"  Then  go  and  tell  him  so,  if  you  want  to  save  him." 

"I  have  told  him.  But  he  does  not  like  me,  and  won't 
believe  me." 

"  Then  let  him  take  his  own  course,  and  he  ruined." 

"But  I  have  just  told  you,  sir,  I  am  under  obligation  to 
him — great  obligation  ! " 

"  Oh  !  I  see  !  you  want  him  yourself  ! — Well,  as  you  wish 
it,  I  would  rather  you  should  have  him  than  that  she-devil. 
But  come,  now,  you  must  be  open  with  me." 

"lam.     I  will  be." 

"  You  say  so,  of  course.  Women  do. — But  you  confess 
you  want  him  yourself  ?  " 

Mary  saw  it  would  be  the  worst  possible  policy  to  be  angry 
with  him,  especially  as  she  had  given  him  the  trouble  to  come 
to  her,  and  she  must  not  lose  this  her  last  chance. 

"I  do  not  want  him,"  she  answered,  with  a  smile  ;  "  and,  if 
I  did,  he  would  never  look  at  one  in  my  position.  He  would 
as  soon  think  of  marrying  the  daughter  of  one  of  his  laborers 
— and  quite  right,  too — for  the  one  might  just  be  as  good  as 
the  other." 

"Well,  now,  that's  a  pity.  I  would  have  done  a  good  deal 
for  you — I  don't  know  why,  for  you're  a  little  humbug  if  ever 
there  was  one  !  But,  if  you  don't  care  about  the  fellow,  I  don't 
see  why  I  should  take  the  trouble.  Confess — you're  a  little  bit 
in  love  with  him — ain't  you,  now  ?  Confess  to  that,  and  I  will 
do  what  I  can." 

"I  can't  confess  to  a  lie.  "I  owe  Mr.  Wardour  a  debt  of 
gratitude — that  is  all — but  no  light  thing,  you  will  allow,  sir  ! " 

"I  don't  know  ;  I  never  tried  its  weight.  Anyhow,  I  should 
make  haste  to  be  rid  of  it." 

"  I  have  sought  to  make  him  this  return,  but  he  only  fancies 
me  a  calumniator.    Miss  Yolland  has  been  beforehand  with  me. " 

"Then,  by  Jove  !  I  don't  see  but  you're  quits  with  him. 
If  he  behaves  like  that  to  you,  don't  you  see,  it  wipes  it  all  out  ? 
Upon  my  soul !  I  don't  see  why  you  should  trouble  your  head 
about  him.     Let  him  take  his  way,  and.go  to — Sepia." 

"But,  sir,  what  &  dreadful  thing  it  would  be,  knowing 
what  she  is,  to  let  a  man  like  him  throw  himself  away  on  her  ! " 


408  MARY  MARSTON. 

"  I  don't  see  it.  I've  no  doubt  he's  just  as  bad  as  she  is. 
We  all  are ;  we're  all  the  same.  And,  if  he  weren't,  it  would 
be  the  better  joke.  Besides,  you  oughtn't  to  keep  up  a  grudge, 
don't  you  know ;  you  ought  to  let  the — the  woman  have  a 
chance.  If  he  marries  her — and  that  must  be  her  game  this 
time — she'll  grow  decent,  and  be  respectable  ever  after,  you 
may  be  sure — go  to  church,  as  you.  would  have  her,  and  all 
that — never  miss  a  Sunday,  I'll  lay  you  a  thousand." 

"  He's  of  a  good  old  family  ! "  said  Mary,  foolishly,  thinking 
that  would  weigh  with  him. 

"  Good  old  fiddlestick  !  Damned  old  worn-out  broom-end  ! 
She's  of  a  good  old  family — quite  good  enough  for  his,  you 
may  take  your  oath  !  Why,  my  girl  !  the  thing's  not  worth 
burning  your  fingers  with.  You've  brought  me  here  on  a 
goose-errand.     I'll  go  and  have  my  lunch." 

He  rose. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  have  vexed  you,  sir,"  said  Mary,  greatly  dis- 
appointed. 

"  Never  mind. — I'm  horribly  sold,"  he  said,  with  a  tight 
grin.  "  I  thought  you  must  have  some  good  thing  in  hand  to 
make  it  worth  your  while  to  send  for  me." 

"  Then  I  must  try  something  else,"  reflected  Mary  aloud. 

"  I  wouldn't  advise  you.  The  man's  only  the  surer  to 
hate  you  and  stick  to  her.  Let  him  alone.  If  he's  a  stuck-up 
fellow  like  that,  it  will  take  him  down  a  bit — when  the  truth 
comes  out,  that  is,  as  come  out  it  must.  There's  one  good  thing 
in  it,  my  wife'll  get  rid  of  her.  But  I  don't  know  !  there's  an 
enemy,  as  the  Bible  says,  that  sticketh  closer  than  a  brother. 
And  they'll  be  next  door  when  Durnmelling  is  mine  !  But  I 
can  sell  it." 

"  If  he  should  come  to  you,  will  you  tell  him  the  truth  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that.     It  might  spoil  my  own  little  game." 

"  Will  you  let  him  think  me  a  liar  and  slanderer  ?  " 

"  No,  by  Jove  !  I  won't  do  that.  I  don't  promise  to  tell 
him  all  the  truth,  or  even  that  what  I  do  tell  him  shall  be 
exactly  true  ;  but  I  won't  let  him  think  ill  of  my  little  puri- 
tan ;  that  would  spoil  your  game.     Ta,  ta  !  " 

He  went  out,  with  his  curious  grin,  amused,  and  enjoying 


A  SUMMONS.  409 

the  idea  of  a  proud  fellow  like  that  being  taken  in  with 
Sepia. 

"  I  hope  devoutly  he'll  marry  her  ! "  he  said  to  himself  as 
he  went  to  his  luncheon.  "  Then  I  shall  hold  a  rod  over  them 
both,  and  perhaps  buy  that  miserable  little  Thornwick.  Mor- 
timer would  give  the  skin  off  his  back  for  it. " 

The  thing  that  ought  to  be  done  had  to  be  done,  and  Mary 
had  done  it — alas  !  to  no  purpose  for  the  end  desired  :  what 
was  left  her  to  do  further  ?  She  could  think  of  nothing.  Se- 
pia, like  a  moral  hyena,  must  range  her  night.  She  went  to 
bed,  and  dreamed  she  was  pursued  by  a  crowd,  hooting  after 
her,  and  calling  her  all  the  terrible  names  of  those  who  spread 
evil  reports.     She  woke  in  misery,  and  slept  no  more. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

A   SUMMONS. 

One  hot  Saturday  afternoon,  in  the  sleepiest  time  of  the 
day,  when  nothing  was  doing,  and  nobody  in  the  shop,  except 
a  poor  boy  who  had  come  begging  for  some  string  to  help  him 
fly  his  kite,  though  for  the  last  month  wind  had  been  more 
scarce  than  string,  Jemima  came  in  from  Durnmelling,  and, 
greeting  Mary  with  the  warmth  of  the  friendship  that  had 
always  been  true  between  them,  gave  her  a  letter. 

"  Whom  is  this  from  ?  "  asked  Mary,  with  the  usual  human 
waste  of  inquiry,  seeing  she  held  the  surest  answer  in  her 
hand. 

"Mr.  Mewks  gave  it  me,"  said  Jemima.  "He  didn't  say 
whom  it  was  from." 

Mary  made  haste  to  open  it :  she  had  an  instinctive  distrust 
of  everything  that  passed  through  Mewks's  hands,  and  greatly 
feared  that,  much  as  his  master  trusted  him,  he  was  not  true 
to  him.  .  She  found  the  following  note  from  Mr.  Red- 
main  : 

18 


410  MARY  MARSTOK 

"  Dear  Miss  Marstok  :  Come  and  see  me  as  soon  as  yon 
can  ;  I  have  something  to  talk  to  yon  abont.  Send  word  by 
the  bearer  when  I  may  look  for  you.     I  am  not  well. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"F.  G.  Eedmain." 

Mary  went  to  her  desk  and  wrote  a  reply,  saying  she  would 
be  with  him  the  next  morning  about  eleven  o'clock.  She 
would  have  gone  that  same  night,  she  said,  but,  as  it  was  Sat- 
urday, she  could  not,  because  of  country  customers,  close  in 
time  to  go  so  far. 

"  Give  it  into  Mr.  Eedmain's  own  hand,  if  you  can,  Jemi- 
ma," she  said. 

"  I  will  try ;  but  I  doubt  if  I  can,  miss,"  answered  the 
girl. 

"Between  ourselves,  Jemima,"  said  Mary,  "I  do  not  trust 
that  man  Mewks." 

"Nobody  does,  miss,  except  the  master  and  Miss  Yolland." 

"Then,"  thought  Mary,  "the  thing  is  worse  than  I  had 
supposed. " 

"I'll  do  what  I  can,  miss,"  Jemima  went  on.  "But  he's 
so  sharp  ! — Mr.  Mewks,  I  mean." 

After  she  was  gone,  Mary  wished  she  had  given  her  a  ver- 
bal message ;  that  she  might  have  insisted  on  delivering  in 
person. 

Jemima,  with  circumspection,  managed  to  reach  Mr.  Eed- 
main's room  unen countered,  but  just  as  she  knocked  at  the 
door,  Mewks  came  behind  her  from  somewhere,  and  snatching 
the  letter  out  of  her  hand,  for  she  carried  it  ready  to  justify 
her  entrance  to  the  first  glance  of  her  irritable  master,  pushed 
her  rudely  away,  and  immediately  went  in.  But  as  he  did  so 
he  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket. 

"Who  took  the  note  ?"  asked  his  master. 

"The  girl  at  the  lodge,  sir." 

"Is  she  not  come  back  yet  ?  " 

"No,  sir,  not  yet.  She'll  be  in  a  minute,  though.  I  saw 
her  coming  up  the  avenue." 

"  Go  and  bring  her  here." 


A  SUMMONS.  411 

"Yes,  sir." 

Mewks  went,  and  in  two  minutes  returned  with  the  letter, 
and  the  message  that  Miss  Marston  hadn't  time  to  direct  it. 

"You  damned  rascal !  I  told  you  to  bring  the  messenger 
here." 

"She  ran  the  whole  way,  sir,  and  not  being  very  strong, 
was  that  tired,  that,  the  moment  she  got  in,  the  poor  thing 
dropped  in  a  dead  faint.     They  ain't  got  her  to  yet." 

His  master  gave  him  one  look  straight  in  the  eyes,  then 
opened  the  letter,  and  read  it. 

"Miss  Marston  will  call  here  to-morrow  morning,"  he 
said  ;  "see  that  she  is  shown  up  at  once — here,  to  my  sitting- 
room.     I  hope  I  am  explicit." 

When  the  man  was  gone,  Mr.  Eedmain  nodded  his  head 
three  times,  and  grinned  the  skin  tight  as  a  drum-head  over 
his  cheek-bones. 

"  There  isn't  a  damned  soul  of  them  to  be  trusted  ! "  he 
said  to  himself,  and  sat  silently  thoughtful. 

Perhaps  he  was  thinking  how  often  he  had  come  short  of 
the  hope  placed  in  him  ;  times  of  reflection  arrive  to  most  men  ; 
and  a  threatened  attack  of  the  illness  he  believed  must  one  day 
carry  him  off,  might  well  have  disposed  him  to  think. 

In  the  evening  he  was  worse. 

By  midnight  he  was  in  agony,  and  Lady  Margaret  was  up 
with  him  all  night.  In  the  morning  came  a  lull,  and  Lady 
Margaret  went  to  bed.  His  wife  had  not  come  near  him.  But 
Sepia  might  have  been  seen,  more  than  once  or  twice,  hovering 
about  his  door. 

Both  she  and  Mewks*  thought,  after  such  a  night,  he  must 
have  forgotten  his  appointment  with  Mary. 

When  he  had  had  some  chocolate,  he  fell  into  a  doze.  But 
his  sleep  was  far  from  profound.  Often  he  woke  and  again 
dozed  off. 

The  clock  in  the  dressing-room  struck  eleven. 

"Show  Miss  Marston  up  the  moment  she  arrives,"  he  said 
— and  his  voice  was  almost  like  that  of  a  man  in  health. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  startled  Mewks,  and  felt  he  must 
obey. 


412  MARY  MARSTON. 

So  Mary  was  at  once  shown  to  the  chamber  of  the  sick  man. 

To  her  surprise  (for  Mewks  had  given  her  no  warning),  he 
was  in  bed,  and  looking  as  ill  as  ever  she  had  seen  him.  His 
small  head  was  like  a  skull  covered  with  parchment.  He  made 
the  slightest  of  signs  to  her  to  come  nearer — and  again.  She 
went  close  to  the  bed.  Mewks  sat  down  at  the  foot  of  it,  out 
of  sight.     It  was  a  great  four-post-bed,  with  curtains. 

"  I'm  glad  you're  come,"  he  said,  with  a  feeble  grin,  all  he 
had  for  a  smile.  "  I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you.  But 
I  can't  while  that  brute  is  sitting  there.  I  have  been  suffering 
horribly.  Look  at  me,  and  tell  me  if  you  think  I  am  going  to 
die — not  that  I  take  your  opinion  for  worth  anything.  That's 
not  what  I  wanted  you  for,  though.  I  wasn't  so  ill  then.  But 
I  want  you  the  more  to  talk  to  now.  You  have  a  bit  of  a  heart, 
even  for  people  that  don't  deserve  it— at  least  I'm  going  to  be- 
lieve you  have  ;  and,  if  I  am  wrong,  I  almost  think  I  would 
rather  not  know  it  till  I'm  dead  and  gone  ! — Good  God  !  where 
shall  I  be  then?" 

I  have  already  said  that,  whether  in  consequence  of  rem- 
nants of  mother-teaching  or  from  the  movements  of  a  con- 
science that  had  more  vitality  than  any  of  his  so-called  friends 
would  have  credited  it  with,  Mr.  Eedmain,  as  often  as  his  suf- 
ferings reached  a  certain  point,  was  subject  to  fits  of  terror — 
horrible  anguish  it  sometimes  amounted  to — at  the  thought  of 
hell.  This,  of  course,  was  silly,  seeing  hell  is  out  of  fashion 
in  far  wider  circles  than  that  of  Mayfair  ;  but  denial  does  not 
alter  fact,  and  not  always  fear.  Mr.  Eedmain  laughed  when 
he  was  well,  and  shook  when  he  was  suffering.  In  vain  he 
argued  with  himself  that  what  he  held  by  when  in  health  was 
much  more  likely  to  be  true  than  a  dread  which  might  be  but 
the  suggestion  of  the  disease  that  was  slowly  gnawing  him  to 
death  :  as  often  as  the  sickness  returned,  he  received  the  sug- 
gestion afresh,  whatever  might  be  its  source,  and  trembled  as 
before.  In  vain  he  accused  himself  of  cowardice — the  thing 
was  there — in  Mm — nothing  could  drive  it  out.  And,  verily, 
even  a  madman  may  be  wiser  than  the  prudent  of  this  world  ; 
and  the  courage  of  not  a  few  would  forsake  them  if  they  dared 
but  look  the  danger  in  the  face.     I  pity  the  poor  ostrich,  and 


A  SUMMONS.  413 

must  I  admire  the  man  of  whose  kind  he  is  the  type,  or  take 
him  in  any  sense  for  a  man  of  courage  ?  Wait  till  the  thing 
stares  you  in  the  face,  and  then,  whether  you  be  brave  man  or 
coward,  you  will  at  all  events  care  little  about  courage  or  cow- 
ardice. The  nearer  a  man  is  to  being  a  true  man,  the  sooner 
will  conscience  of  wrong  make  a  coward  of  him  ;  and  herein 
Eedmain  had  a  far-off  kindred  with  the  just.  After  the  night 
he  had  passed,  he  was  now  in  one  of  his  terror-fits ;  and  this 
much  may  be  said  for  his  good  sense — that,  if  there  was  any- 
where a  hell  for  the  use  of  anybody,  he  was  justified  in  antici- 
pating a  free  entrance. 

"  Mewks  ! "  he  called,  suddenly,  and  his  tone  was  loud  and 
angry. 

Mewks  was  by  his  bedside  instantly. 

"  Get  out  with  you !  If  I  find  you  in  this  room  again, 
without  having  been  called,  I  will  kill  you  !  I  am  strong 
enough  for  that,  even  without  this  pain.  They  won't  hang  a 
dying  man,  and  where  I  am  going  they  will  rather  like  it. " 

Mewks  vanished. 

"  You  need  not  mind,  my  girl,"  he  went  on,  to  Mary. 
"  Everybody  knows  I  am  ill — very  ill.  Sit  down  there,  on  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  only  take  care  you  don't  shake  it,  and  let  me 
talk  to  you.  People,  you  know,  say  nowadays  there  ain't  any 
hell — or  perhaps  none  to  speak  of  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  the  former  more  likely  than  the  latter," 
said  Mary. 

"  You  don't  believe  there  is  any  ?  I  am  glad  of  that !  for 
you  are  a  good  girl,  and  ought  to  know." 

"You  mistake  me,  sir.  How  can  I  imagine  there  is  no 
hell,  when  he  said  there  was  ?  " 

"  Who's  he  ?  " 

"  The  man  who  knows  all  about  it,  and  means  to  put  a  stop 
to  it  some  day." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  see  !  Hm  ! — But  1  don't  for  the  life  of  me  see 
what  a  fellow  is  to  make  of  it  all — don't  you  know  ?  Those 
parsons  !  They  will  have  it  there's  no  way  out  of  it  but  theirs, 
and  I  never  could  see  a  handle  anywhere  to  that  door  !  " 

"  I  don't  see  what  the  parsons  have  got  to  do  with  it,  or,  at 


414  MARY  MARSTON. 

least,  what  you  have  got  to  do  with  the  parsons.  If  a  thing  is 
true,  you  have  as  much  to  do  with  it  as  any  parson  in  England  ; 
if  it  is  not  true,  neither  you  nor  they  have  anything  to  do  with 
it." 

"But,  I  tell  you,  if  it  be  all  as  true  as — as — that  we  are  all 
sinners,  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  it  ! " 

"  It  seems  to  me  a  simple  thing.  That  man  as  much  as  said 
he  knew  all  about  it,  and  came  to  find  men  that  were  lost,  and 
take  them  home ." 

"He  can't  well  find  one  more  lost  than  I  am  I  But  how 
am  I  to  believe  it  ?  How  can  it  be  true  ?  It's  ages  since  he 
was  here,  if  ever  he  was  at  all,  and  there  hasn't  been  a  sign  of 
him  ever  since,  all  the  time  ! " 

"  There  you  may  be  quite  wrong.  I  think  I  could  find  you 
some  who  believe  him  just  as  near  them  now  as  ever  he  was  to 
his  own  brothers — believe  that  he  hears  them  when  they  speak 
to  him,  and  heeds  what  they  say." 

"That's  bosh.  You  would  have  me  believe  against  the 
evidence  of  my  senses  ! " 

"You  must  have  strange  senses,  Mr.  Kedmain,  that  give 
you  evidence  where  they  can't  possibly  know  anything !  If 
that  man  spoke  the  truth  when  he  was  in  the  world,  he  is  near 
us  now  ;  if  he  is  not  near  us,  there  is  an  end  of  it  all." 

"  The  nearer  he  is,  the  worse  for  me  ! "  sighed  Mr.  Red- 
main. 

"The  nearer  he  is,  the  better  for  the  worst  man  that  ever 
breathed." 

"  That's  queer  doctrine  !  Mind  you,  I  don't  say  it  mayn't 
be  all  right.  But  it  does  seem  a  cowardly  thing  to  go  asking 
him  to  save  you,  after  you've  been  all  your  life  doing  what  ought 
to  damn  you — if  there  be  a  hell,  mind  you,  that  is." 

"But  think,"  said  Mary,  "if  that  should  be  your  only 
chance  of  being  able  to  make  up  for  the  mischief  you  have 
done  ?  No  punishment  you  can  have  will  do  anything  for 
that.  No  suffering  of  yours  will  do  anything  for  those  you 
have  made  suffer.  But  it  is  so  much  harder  to  leave  the  old 
way  than  to  go  on  and  let  things  take  their  chance  ! " 

"There  may  be  something  in  what  you  say ;  but  still  I  can't 


A  SUMMONS.  415 

see  it  anything  better  than  sneaking,  to  do  a  world  of  mischief, 
and  then  slink  away  into  heaven,  leaving  all  the  poor  wretches 
to  look  after  themselves." 

"  I  don't  think  Jesus  Christ  is  worse  pleased  with  you  for 
feeling  like  that,"  said  Mary. 

"  Eh  ?  What  ?  What's  that  you  say  ? — Jesus  Christ  worse 
pleased  with  me  ?  That's  a  good  one  !  As  if  he  ever  thought 
about  a  fellow  like  me  ! " 

"  If  he  did  not,  you  would  not  be  thinking  about  him  just 
this  minute,  I  suspect.  There's  no  sense  in  it,  if  he  does  not 
think  about  you.  He  said  himself  he  didn't  come  to  call  the 
righteous,  but  sinners  to  repentance." 

"  I  wish  I  could  repent." 

"You  can,  if  you  will." 

"  I  can't  make  myself  sorry  for  what's  gone  and  done  with." 

"  No  ;  it  wants  him  to  do  that.  But  you  can  turn  from 
your  old  ways,  and  ask  him  to  take  you  for  a  pupil.  Aren't  you 
willing  to  learn,  if  he  be  willing  to  teach  you  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  It's  all  so  dull  and  stupid  !  I  never  could 
bear  going  to  church." 

"  It's  not  one  bit  like  that !  It's  like  going  to  your  moth- 
er, and  saying  you're  going  to  try  to  be  a  good  boy,  and  not  vex 
her  any  more." 

"  I  see.  It's  all  right,  I  dare  say  !  But  I've  had  as  much 
of  it  as  I  can  stand  !  You  see,  I'm  not  used  to  such  things. 
You  go  away,  and  send  Mewks.  Don't  be  far  off,  though,  and 
mind  you  don't  go  home  without  letting  me  know.  There  ! 
Go  along." 

She  had  just  reached  the  door,  when  he  called  her  again. 

"I  say  !  Mind  whom  you  trust  in  this  house.  There's  no 
harm  in  Mrs.  Redmain  ;  she  only  grows  stupid  directly  she 
don't  like  a  thing.  But  that  Miss  Yolland  ! — that  woman's  the 
devil.  I  know  more  about  her  than  you  or  any  one  else.  I 
can't  bear  her  to  be  about  Hesper  ;  but,  if  I  told  her  the  half  I 
know,  she  would  not  believe  the  half  of  that.  I  shall  find  a 
way,  though.  But  I  am  forgetting  !  you  know  her  as  well  as  I 
do — that  is,  you  would,  if  you  were  wicked  enough  to  under- 
stand.    I  will  tell  you  one  of  these  days  what  I  am  going  to 


416  MART  MARSTON. 

do.  There  !  don't  say  a  word.  I  want  no  advice  on  such 
things.     Go  along,  and  send  Mewks." 

With  all  his  suspicion  of  the  man,  Mr.  Eedmain  did  not  sus- 
pect liow  false  Mewks  was  :  he  did  not  know  that  Miss  Yolland 
had  bewitched  him  for  the  sake  of  having  an  ally  in  the  enemy's 
camp.  All  he  could  hear — and  the  dressing-room  door  was 
handy — the  fellow  duly  reported  to  her.  Already,  instructed 
by  her  fears,  she  had  almost  divined  what  Mr.  Eedmain  meant 
to  do. 

Mary  went  and  sat  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  stair  just  out- 
side the  room. 

"What  are  you  doing  there  ?"  said  Lady  Margaret,  coming 
from  the  corridor. 

"  Mr.  Eedmain  will  not  have  me  go  yet,  my  lady,"  answered 
Mary,  rising.     "  I  must  wait  first  till  he  sends  for  me." 

Lady  Margaret  swept  past  her,  murmuring,  "Most  pecu- 
liar ! "     Mary  sat  down  again. 

In  about  an  hour,  Mewks  came  and  said  his  master  wanted 
her. 

He  was  very  ill,  and  could  not  talk,  but  he  would  not  let 
her  go.  He  made  her  sit  where  he  could  see  her,  and  now  and 
then  stretched  out  his  hand  to  her.  Even  in  his  pain  he  showed 
a  quieter  spirit.  "  Something  may  be  working — who  can  tell ! " 
thought  Mary. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  at  length  he  sought  fur- 
ther conversation. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  Mary,"  he  said,  "that  if  I  do  wake 
up  in  hell  when  I  die,  no  matter  how  much  I  deserve  it,  no- 
body will  be  the  better  for  it,  and  I  shall  be  all  the  worse." 

He  spoke  with  coolness,  but  it  was  by  a  powerful  effort :  he 
had  waked  from  a  frightful  dream,  drenched  from  head  to  foot. 
Coward  ?    No.     He  had  reason  to  fear. 

"Whereas,"  rejoined  Mary,  taking  up  his  clew,  "every- 
body will  be  the  better  if  you  keep  out  of  it — everybody,"  she 
repeated,  " — God,  and  Jesus  Christ,  and  all  their  people." 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out  ?  "  he  asked.  "  God  has  more 
to  do  than  look  after  such  as  me." 

"  You  think  he  has  so  many  worlds  to  look  to— thousands 


A  SUMMONS.  417 

of  them  only  making  ?  But  why  does  he  care  about  his  worlds  ? 
Is  it  not  because  they  are  the  schools  of  his  souls  ?  And  why 
should  he  care  for  the  souls  ?  Is  it  not  because  he  is  making 
them  children — his  own  children  to  understand  him,  and  be 
happy  with  his  happiness  ?  " 

"I  can't  say  I  care  for  his  happiness.  I  want  my  own. 
And  yet  I  don't  know  any  that's  worth  the  worry  of  it.  No  ; 
I  would  rather  be  put  out  like  a  candle." 

"That's  because  you  have  been  a  disobedient  child,  taking 
your  own  way,  and  turning  God's  good  things  to  evil.  You 
don't  know  what  a  splendid  thing  life  is.  You  actually  and 
truly  don't  know,  never  experienced  in  your  being  the  very 
thing  you  were  made  for." 

"My  father  had  no  business  to  leave  me  so  much  money." 

"You  had  no  business  to  misuse  it." 

"  I  didn't  quite  know  what  I  was  doing." 

"You  do  now." 

Then  came  a  pause. 

"  You  think  God  hears  prayer — do  you  ?  " 

"I  do." 

"  Then  I  wish  you  would  ask  him  to  let  me  off — I  mean,  to 
let  me  die  right  out  when  I  do  die.  What's  the  good  of  mak- 
ing a  body  miserable  ?  " 

"  That,  I  am  sure  it  would  be  of  no  use  to  pray  for.  He 
certainly  will  not  throw  away  a  thing  he  has  made,  because 
that  thing  may  be  foolish  enough  to  prefer  the  dust-hole  to  a 
cabinet." 

"  Wouldn't  you  do  it  now,  if  I  asked  you  ?  " 

"I  would  not.  I  would  leave  you  in  God's  hands  rather 
than  inside  the  gate  of  heaven. " 

"  I  don't  understand  you.  And  you  wouldn't  say  so  if  you 
cared  for  me  !     Only,  why  should  you  care  for  me  ?  " 

"I  would  give  my  life  for  you." 

"  Come,  now  !    I  don't  believe  that." 

"  Why,  I  couldn't  be  a  Christian  if  I  wouldn't  ! " 

"  You  are  getting  absurd  !  "  he  cried.  But  he  did  not  look 
exactly  as  if  he  thought  it. 

"  Absurd  !  "  repeated  Mary.     "  Isn't  that  what  makes  Mm 


418     *  MARY  MARSTOK 

our  Saviour  ?  How  could  I  be  his  disciple,  if  I  wouldn't  do  as 
he  did  ?  " 

"  You  are  saying  a  good  deal  !  " 

"  Can't  you  see  that  I  have  no  choice  ?  " 

"  /  wouldn't  do  that  for  anybody  under  the  sun  ! " 

"  You  are  not  his  disciple.  You  have  not  been  going  about 
with  him." 

"  And  you  have  ?  " 

"  Yes — for  many  years.  Besides,  I  can  not  help  thinking 
there  is  one  for  whom  you  would  do  it." 

".  If  you  mean  my  wife,  you  never  were  more  mistaken.  I 
would  do  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"  I  did  not  mean  your  wife.     I  mean  Jesus  Christ." 

( '  Oh,  I  dare  say  !  Well,  perhaps  ;  if  I  knew  him  as  you  do, 
and  if  I  were  quite  sure  he  wanted  it  done  for  him." 

"  He  does  want  it  done  for  him — always  and  every  day — 
not  for  his  own  sake,  though  it  does  make  him  very  glad.  To 
give  up  your  way  for  his  is  to  die  forliim  ;  and,  when  any  one 
will  do  that,  then  he  is  able  to  do  everything  for  him  ;  for  then, 
and  not  till  then,  he  gets  such  a  hold  of  him  that  he  can  lift 
him  up,  and  set  him  down  beside  himself.  That's  how  my 
father  used  to  teach  me,  and  now  I  see  it  for  myself  to  be 
true." 

"  It's  all  very  grand,  no  doubt ;  but  it  ain't  nowhere,  you 
know.  It's  all  in  your  own  head,  and  nowhere  else.  You 
don't,  you  can't  positively  believe  all  that ! " 

"  So  much;  at  least,  that  I  live  in  the  strength  and  hope  it 
gives  me,  and  order  my  ways  according  to  it." 

"  Why  didn't  you  teach  my  wife  so  ?  " 

"  I  tried,  but  she  didn't  care  to  think.  I  could  not  get 
any  further  with  her.  She  has  had  no  trouble  yet  to  make  her 
listen." 

"By  Jove  !  I  should  have  thought  marrying  a  fellow  like 
me  might  have  been  trouble  enough  to  make  a  saint  of  her." 

It  was  impossible  to  fix  him  to  any  line  of  thought,  and 
Mary  did  not  attempt  it.  To  move  the  child  in  him  was  more 
than  all  argument. 

A  pause  followed. 


A  SUMMONS.  .     419 

ff  I  don't  loye  God,"  he  said. 

"  I  dare  say  not,"  replied  Mary.  "How  should  you,  when 
you  don't  know  him  ?  " 

"  Then  what's  to  be  done  ?  I  can't  very  well  show  myself 
where  I  hate  the  master  of  the  house  ! " 

"  If  you  knew  him,  you  would  love  him." 

"  You  are  judging  by  yourself.  But  there  is  as  much  dif- 
ference between  you  and  me  as  between  light  and  dark- 
ness." 

"Not  quite  that,"  replied  Mary,  with  one  of  those  smiles 
that  used  to  make  her  father  feel  as  if  she  were  that  moment 
come  fresh  from  God  to  him.  "If  you  knew  Jesus  Christ, 
you  could  not  help  loving  him,  and  to  love  him  is  to  love 
God." 

"  You  wear  me  out  !  Will  you  never  come  to  the  point  ? 
Knoiv  Jesus  Christ!  How  am  I  to  go  back  two  thousand 
years  ? " 

"What  he  was  then  he  is  now,"  answered  Mary.  "And 
you  may  even  know  him  better  than  they  did  at  the  time  who 
saw  him  ;  for  it  was  not  until  they  understood  him  better,  by 
his  being  taken  from  them,  that  they  wrote  down  his  life." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  I  must  read  the  New  Testament  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Eedmain,  pettishly. 

"  Of  course  ! "  answered  Mary,  a  little  surprised  ;  for  she 
was  unaware  how  few  have  a  notion  what  the  New  Testament 
is,  or  is  meant  for. 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  say  so  at  first  ?  There  I  have  you  ! 
That's  just  where  I  learn  that  I  must  be  damned  for  ever  !  " 

"  I  don't  mean  the  Epistles.  Those  you  can't  understand 
-yet." 

"  I'm  glad  you  don't  mean  them.  •  I  hate  them." 

"I  don't  wonder.  You  have  never  seen  a  single  shine  of 
what  they  are  ;  and  what  most  people  think  them  is  hardly  the 
least  like  them.  What  I  want  you  to  read  is  the  life  and  death 
of  the  son  of  man,  the  master  of  men." 

"  I  can't  read.  I  should  only  make  myself  twice  as  ill.  I 
won't  try." 

"  But  I  will  read  to  you,  if  you  will  let  me." 


420  MARY  MARSTON. 

"How  comes  it  you  are  such  a  theologian  ?  A  woman  is 
not  expected  to  know  about  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  I  am  no  theologian.  There  just  comes  one  of  the  cases 
in  which  those  who  call  themselves  his  followers  do  not  be- 
lieve what  the  Master  said  :  he  said  God  hid  these  things  from 
the  wise  and  prudent,  and  revealed  them  to  babes.  I  had  a 
father  who  was  child  enough  to  know  them,  and  I  was  child 
enough  to  believe  him,  and  so  grew  able  to  understand  them 
for  myself.  The  whole  secret  is  to  do  the  thing  the  Master 
tells  you  :  then  you  will  understand  what  he  tells  you.  The 
opinion  of  the  wisest  man,  if  he  does  not  do  the  things  he 
reads,  is  not  worth  a  rush.  He  may  be  partly  right,  but  you 
have  no  reason  to  trust  him." 

"Well,  you  shall  be  my  chaplain.  To-morrow,  if  I'm  able 
to  listen,  you  shall  see  what  you  can  make  of  the  old  sinner." 

Mary  did  not  waste  words  :  where  would  have  been  the  use 
of  pulling  up  the  poor  spiritual  clodpole  at  every  lumbering 
step,  at  any  word  inconsistent  with  the  holy  manners  of  the 
high  countries  ?  Once  get  him  to  court,  and  the  power  of  the 
presence  would  subdue  him,  and  make  him  over  again  from 
the  beginning,  without  which  absolute  renewal  the  best  ob- 
servance of  religious  etiquette  is  worse  than  worthless.  Many 
good  people  are  such  sticklers  for  the  proprieties  !  For  my- 
self, I  take  joyous  refuge  with  the  grand,  simple,  e very-day 
humanity  of  the  man  I  find  in  the  story— the  man  with  the 
heart  like  that  of  my  father  and  my  mother  and  my  brothers 
and  sisters.  If  I  may  but  see  and  help  to  show  him  a  little  as 
he  lived  to  show  himself,  and  not  as  church  talk  and  church 
ways  and  church  ceremonies  and  church  theories  and  church 
plans  of  salvation  and  church  worldliness  generally  have  ob- 
scured him  for  hundreds  of  years,  and  will  yet  obscure  him  for 
hundreds  more  ! 

Toward  evening,  when  she  had  just  rendered  him  one  of 
the  many  attentions  he  required,  and  which  there  was  no  one 
that  day  but  herself  to  render,  for  he  would  scarcely  allow 
Mewks  to  enter  the  room,  he  said  to  her  : 

"  Thank  you  ;  you  are  very  good  to  me.  I  shall  remember 
you.     Not  that  I  think  I'm  going  to  die  just  yet ;  I've  often 


A  SUMMONS.  421 

been  as  bad  as  this,  and  got  quite  well  again.  Besides,  I  want 
to  show  that  I  have  turned  over  a  new  leaf.  Don't  you  think 
God  will  give  me  one  more  chance,  now  that  I  really  mean  it  ? 
I  never  did  before." 

"God  can  tell  whether  you  mean  it  without  that,"  she 
answered,  not  daring  to  encourage  him  where  she  knew  no- 
thing.' "But  you  said  you  would  remember  me,  Mr.  Red- 
main  :  I  hope  you  didn't  mean  in  your  will." 

"I  did  mean  in  my  will,"  he  answered,  but  in  a  tone  of 
displeasure.  "  I  must  say,  however,  I  should  have  preferred 
you  had  not  shown  quite  such  an  anxiety  about  it.  I  sha'n't 
be  in  my  coffin  to-morrow  ;  and  I'm  not  in  the  way  of  forget- 
ting things." 

"I  beg  you,"  returned  Mary,  flushing,  "to  do  nothing  of 
the  sort.  I  have  plenty  of  money,  and  don't  care  about  more. 
I  would  much  rather  not  have  any  from  you. " 

"  But  think  how  much  good  you  might  do  with  it !  "  said 
Mr.  Bedmain,  satirically.  " — It  was  come  by  honestly — so  far 
as  I  know." 

"Money  can't  do  half  the  good  people  think.  It  is  stub- 
born stuff  to  turn  to  any  good.  And  in  this  case  it  would  be 
directly  against  good." 

"Nobody  has  a  right  to  refuse  what  comes  honestly  in  his 
way.  There's  no  end  to  the  good  that  may  be  done  with 
money — to  judge,  at  least,  by  the  harm  I've  done  with  mine," 
said  Mr.  Redmain,  this  time  with  seriousness. 

"  It  is  not  in  it,"  persisted  Mary.  "If  it  had  been,  our 
Lord  would  have  used  it,  and  he  never  did." 

"  Oh,  but  he  was  all  an  exception  !  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  he  is  the  only  man  who  is  no  exception. 
"We  are  the  exceptions.  Every  one  but  him  is  more  or  less  out 
of  the  straight.  Do  you  not  see  ? — he  is  the  very  one  we  must 
all  come  to  be  the  same  as,  or  perish  !  No,  Mr.  Bedmain  ! 
don't  leave  me  any  money,  or  I  shall  be  altogether  bewildered 
what  to  do  with  it.  Mrs.  Redmain  would  not  take  it  from 
me.  Miss  Yolland  might,  but  I  dared  not  give  it  to  her. 
And  for  societies,  I  have  small  faith  in  them." 

"Well,  well !  I'll  think  about  it,"  said  Mr.  Bedmain,  who 


422  MARY  MARSTOK 

had  now  got  so  far  on  the  way  of  life  as  to  be  capable  of  be- 
lieving that  when  Mary  said  a  thing  she  meant  it,  though  he 
was  quite  incapable  of  understanding  the  true  relations  of 
money.  Few  indeed  are  the  Christians  capable  of  that !  The 
most  of  them  are  just  where  Peter  was,  when,  the  moment 
after  the  Lord  had  honored  him  as  the  first  to  recognize  him 
as  the  Messiah,  he  took  upon  him  to  object  altogether  to  his 
Master's  way  of  working  salvation  in  the  earth.  The  Eoman 
emperors  took  up  Peter's  plan,  and  the  devil  has  been  in  the 
church  ever  since — -Peter's  Satan,  whom  the  Master  told  to  get 
behind  him.  They  are  poor  prophets,  and  no  martyrs,  who 
honor  money  as  an  element  of  any  importance  in  the  salva- 
tion of  the  world.  Hunger  itself  does  incomparably  more  to 
make.  Christ's  kingdom  come  than  ever  money  did,  or  ever 
will  do  while  time  lasts.  Of  course  money  has  its  part,  for 
everything  has  ;  and  whoever  has  money  is  bound  to  use  it  as 
best  he  knows  ;  but  his  best  is  generally  an  attempt  to  do 
saint- work  by  devil-proxy. 

"I  can't  think  where  on  earth  you  got  such  a  sackful  of 
extravagant  notions  ! "  Mr.  Kedmain  added. 

"I  told  you  before,  sir,  I  had  a  father  who  set  me  think- 
ing ! "  answered  Mary. 

"I  wish  I  had  had  a  father  like  yours,"  he  rejoined. 

"There  are  not  many  such  to  be  had." 

"I  fear  mine  wasn't  just  what  he  ought  to  be,  though  he 
can't  have  been  such  a  rascal  as  his  son  :  he  hadn't  time  ;  he 
had  his  money  to  make." 

"  He  had  the  temptation  to  make  it,  and  you  have  the 
temptation  to  spend  it :  which  is  the  more  dangerous,  I  don't 
know.     Each  has  led  to  many  crimes." 

"  Oh,  as  to  crimes — I  don't  know  about  that !  It  depends 
on  what  you  call  crimes." 

"  It  doesn't  matter  whether  men  call  a  deed  a  crime  or  a 
fault ;  the  thing  is  how  God  regards  it,  for  that  is  the  only 
truth  about  it.  What  the  World  thinks,  goes  for  nothing,  be- 
cause it  is  never  right.  It  would  be  worse  in  me  to  do  some 
things  the  world  counts  perfectly  honorable,  than  it  would  be 
for  this  man  to  commit  a  burglary,  or  that  a  murder.     I  mean 


A  SUMMONS.  423 

my  guilt  might  be  greater  in  committing  a  respectable  sin, 
than  theirs  in  committing  a  disreputable  one." 

Had  Mary  known  anything  of  science,  she  might  have  said 
that,  in  morals  as  in  chemistry,  the  qualitative  analysis  is  easy, 
but  the  quantitative  another  affair. 

The  latter  part  of  this  conversation,  Sepia  listening  heard, 
and  misunderstood  utterly. 

All  the  rest  of  the  day  Mary  was  with  Mr.  Eedmain,  mostly 
by  his  bedside,  sitting  in  silent  watchfulness  when  he  was 
unable  to  talk  with  her.  Nobody  entered  the  room  except 
Mewks,  who,  when  he  did,  seemed  to  watch  everything,  and 
try  to  hear  everything,  and  once  Lady  Margaret.  When  she 
saw  Mary  seated  by  the  bed,  though  she  must  have  known 
well  enough  she  was  there,  she  drew  herself  up  with  grand 
English  repellence,  and  looked  scandalized.  Mary  rose,  and 
was  about  to  retire.  But  Mr.  Redmain  motioned  her  to  sit 
still. 

"This  is  my  spiritual  adviser,  Lady  Margaret,"  he  said'. 

Her  ladyship  cast  a  second  look  on  Mary,  such  as  few  but 
her  could  cast,  and  left-  the  room. 

On  into  the  gloom  of  the  evening  Mary  sat.  No  one 
brought  her  anything  to  eat  or  drink,  and  Mr.  Eedmain  was 
too  much  taken  up  with  himself,  soul  and  body,  to  think  of 
her.  She  was  now  past  hunger,  and  growing  faint,  when, 
through  the  settled  darkness,  the  words  came  to  her  from  the 
bed: 

"  I  should  like  to  have  you  near  me  when  I  am  dying, 
Mary." 

The  voice  was  a  softer  than  she  had  yet  heard  from  Mr. 
Redmain,  and  its  tone  went  to  her  heart. 

"I  will  certainly  be  with  you,  if  God  please,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"  There  is  no  fear  of  God,"  returned  Mr.  Redmain  ;  "it's 
the  devil  will  try  to  keep  you  away.  But  never  you  heed  what 
any  one  may  do  or  say  to  prevent  you.  Do  your  very  best  to  be 
with  me.  By  that  time  I  may  not  be  having  my  own  way  any 
more.  Be  sure,  the  first  moment  they  can  get  the  better  of 
me,  they  will.     And  you  mustn't  place  confidence  in  a  single 


424:  MARY  MARSTOK 

soul  in  this  house.  I  don't  say  my  wife  would  play  me  false  so 
long  as  I  was  able  to  swear  at  her,  but  I  wouldn't  trust  her  one 
moment  longer.  You  come  and  be  with  me  in  spite  of  the 
whole  posse  of  them." 

"I  will  try,  Mr.  Redmain,"  she  answered,  faintly.  "But 
indeed  you  must  let  me  go  now,  else  I  may  be  unable  to  come 
to-morrow." 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked  hurriedly,  half  lifting  his 
head  with  a  look  of  alarm.  "There's  no  knowing,"  he  went 
on,  muttering  to  himself,  "what  may  happen  in  this  cursed 
house. " 

"Nothing,"  replied  Mary,  "but  that  I  have  not  had  any- 
thing to  eat  since  I  left  home.     I  feel  rather  faint." 

"They've  given  you  nothing  to  eat !"  cried  Mr.  Kedmain, 
but  in  a  tone  that  seemed  rather  of  satisfaction  than  displea- 
sure.    "Ring — no,  don't." 

"Indeed,  I  would  rather  not  have  anything  now  till  I  get 
home,"  said  Mary.  "I  don't  feel  inclined  to  eat  where  I  am 
not  welcome." 

"Eight!  right!  right! "said  Mr.  •  Redmain.  "Stick  to 
that.  Never  eat  where  you  are  not  welcome.  Go  home  di- 
rectly.    Only  say  when  you  will  come  to-morrow." 

"I  can't  very  well  during  the  day,"  answered  Mary. 
"  There  is  so  much  to  be  done,  and  I  have  so  little  help.  But, 
if  you  should  want  me,  I  would  rather  shut  up  the  shop  than 
not  come." 

"  There  is  no  need  for  that !  Indeed,  I  would  much  rather 
have  you  in  the  evening.  The  first  of  the  night  is  worst  of  all. 
It's  then  the  devils  are  out. — Look  here,"  he  added,  after  a 
short  pause,  during  which  Mary,  for  as  unfit  as  she  felt,  hesi- 
tated to  leave  him,  " — being  in  business,  you've  got  a  lawyer, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"Then  you  go  to  him  to-night  the  first  thing,  and  tell  him 
to  come  to  me  to-morrow,  about  noon.  Tell  him  I  am  ill,  and 
in  bed,  and  particularly  want  to  see  him ;  and  he  mustn't  let 
anything  they  say  keep  him  from  me,  not  even  if  they  tell  him 
I  am  dead." 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED.  425 

"I  will,"  said  Mary,  and,  stroking  the  thin  hand  that  lay 
outside  the  counterpane,  turned  and  left  him. 

"■  Don't  tell  any  one  you  are  gone,"  he  called  after  her,  with 
a  voice  far  from  feeble.  "I  don't  want  any  of  their  damned 
company." 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

A     FRIEND     I ZST     NEED. 

Mart  left  the  house,  and  saw  no  one  on  her  way.  But  it 
was  better,  she  said  to  herself,  that  he  should  lie  there  un- 
tended,  than  be  waited  on  by  unloving  hands. 

The  night  was  very  dark.  There  was  no  moon,  and  the 
stars  were  hidden  by  thick  clouds.  She  must  walk  all  the  way 
to  Testbridge.  She  felt  weak,  but  the  fresh  air  was  reviving. 
She  did  not  know  the  way  so  familiarly  as  that  between  Thorn- 
wick  and  the  town,  but  she  would  enter  the  latter  before  arriv- 
ing at  the  common. 

She  had  not  gone  far  when  the  moon  rose,  and  from  behind 
the  clouds  diminished  the  darkness  a  little.  The  first  part  of 
her  journey  lay  along  a  narrow  lane,  with  a  small  ditch,  a  ris- 
ing bank,  and  a  hedge  on  each  side.  About  the  middle  of  the 
lane  was  a  farmyard,  and  a  little  way  farther  a  cottage.  Soon 
after  passing  the  gate  of  the  farmyard,  she  thought  she  heard 
steps  behind  her,  seemingly  soft  and  swift,  and  naturally  felt  a 
little  apprehension  ;  but  her  thoughts  flew  to  the  one  hiding- 
place  for  thoughts  and  hearts  and  lives,  and  she  felt  no  terror. 
At  the  same  time  something  moved  her  to  quicken  her  pace. 
As  she  drew  near  the  common,  she  heard  the  steps  more  plainly, 
still  soft  and  swift,  and  almost  wished  she  had  sought  refuge 
in  the  cottage  she  had  just  passed — only  it  bore  no  very  good 
character  in  the  neighborhood.  When  she  reached  the  spot 
where  the  paths  united,  feeling  a  little  at  home,  she  stopped  to 
listen.  Behind  her  were  the  footsteps  plain  enough  !  The  same 
moment  the  clouds  thinned  about  the  moon,  and  a  pale  light 
came  filtering  through  upon  the  common  in  front  of  her.     She 


426  MART  MARSTOK 

cast  one  look  over  her  shoulder,  saw  something  turn  a  corner 
in  the  lane,  and  sped  on  again.  She  would  have  run,  but  there 
was  no  place  of  refuge  now  nearer  than  the  corner  of  the  turn- 
pike-road, and  she  knew  her  breath  would  fail  her  long  before 
that.  How  lonely  and  shelterless  the  common  looked  !  The 
soft,  swift  steps  came  nearer  and  nearer. 

Was  that  music  she  heard  ?  She  dared  not  stop  to  listen. 
But  immediately,  thereupon,  was  poured  forth  on  the  dim  air 
such  a  stream  of  pearly  sounds  as  if  all  the  necklaces  of  some 
heavenly  choir  of  woman-angels  were  broken,  and  the  beads 
came  pelting  down  in  a  cataract  of  hurtless  hail.  From  no 
source  could  they  come  save  the  bow  and  violin  of  Joseph  Jas- 
per !  Where  could  he  be  ?  She  was  so  rejoiced  to  know  that 
he  must  be  somewhere  near,  that,  for  very  delight  of  unsecured 
safety,  she  held  her  peace,  and  had  almost  stopped.  But  she 
ran  on  again. 

She  was  now  nigh  the  ruined  hut  with  which  my  narrative 
has  made  the  reader  acquainted.  In  the  mean  time  the  moon 
had  been  growing  out  of  the  clouds,  clearer  and  clearer.  The 
hut  came  in  sight.  But  the  look  of  it  was  somehow  altered 
— with  an  undefinable  change,  such  as  might  appear  on  a  fa- 
miliar object  in  a  dream  ;  and  leaning  against  the  side  of  the 
door  stood  a  figure  she  could  not  mistake  for  another  than  her 
musician.  Absorbed  in  his  music,  he  did  not  see  her.  She 
called  out,  "Joseph  !  Joseph!"  He  started,  threw  his  bow 
from  him,  tucked  his  violin  under  his  arm,  and  bounded  to 
meet  her.  She  tried  to  stop,  and  the  same  moment  to  look 
behind  her.  The  consequence  was  that  she  fell — but  safe  in 
the  smith's  arms.  That  instant  appeared  a  man  running.  He 
half  stopped,  and,  turning  from  the  path,  took  to  the  common. 
Jasper  handed  his  violin  to  Mary,  and  darted  after  him.  The 
chase  did  not  last  a  minute  ;  the  man  was  nearly  spent.  Jo- 
seph seized  him  by  the  wrist,  saw  something  glitter  in  his 
other  hand,  and  turned  sick.  The  fellow  had  stabbed  him. 
With  indignation,  as  if  it  were  a  snake  that  had  bit  him,  the 
blacksmith  flung  from  him  the  hand  he  held.  The  man  gave 
a  cry,  staggered,  recovered  himself,  and  ran.  Joseph  would 
have  followed  again,  but  fell,  and  for  a  minute  or  two  lost  con- 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED.  427 

sciousness.  When  he  came  to  himself,  Mary  was  binding  up 
his  arm. 

"What  a  fool  I  am  !  "  he  said,  trying  to  get  up,  but  yield- 
ing at  once  to  Mary's  prevention.  "Ain't  it  ridic'lous  now, 
miss,  that  a  man  of  my  size,  and  ready  to  work  a  sledge  with 
any  smith  in  Yorkshire,  should  turn  sick  for  a  little  bit  of  a 
job  with  a  knife  ?  But  my  father  was  just  the  same,  and  he 
was  a  stronger  man  than  I'm  like  to  be,  I  fancy." 

"It  is  no  such  wonder  as  you  think,"  said  Mary ;  "you 
have  lost  a  good  deal  of  blood." 

Her  voice  faltered.  She  had  been  greatly  alarmed — and  the 
more  that  she  had  not  light  enough  to  get  the  edges  of  the 
wound  properly  together. 

"You've  stopped  it — <dn't  you,  miss  ?" 

"I  think  so." 

"  Then  I'll  be  after  the  fellow." 

"No,  no;  you  must  not  attempt  it.  You  must  lie  still 
awhile.  But  I  don't  understand  it  at  all !  That  cottage  used 
to  be  a  mere  hovel,  without  door  or  window  !  It  can't  be  you 
live  in  it  ?  " 

"Ay,  that  I  do  !  and  it's  not  a  bad  place  either,"  answered 
Joseph.  "  That's  what  I  went  to  Yorkshire  to  get  my  money 
for.     It's  mine — bought  and  paid  for." 

"  But  what  made  you  think  of  coming  here  ?  " 

"  Let's  go  into  the  smithy — house  I  won't  presume  to  call 
it,"  said  Joseph,  "though  it  has  a  lean-to  for  the  smith — and 
I'll  tell  you  everything  about  it.  But  really,  miss,  you  oughtn't 
to  be  out  like  this  after  dark.  There's  too  many  vagabonds 
about." 

With  but  little  need  of  the  help  Mary  yet  gave  him,  Joseph 
got  up,  and  led  her  to  what  was  now  a  respectable  little  smithy, 
with  forge  and  bellows  and  anvil  and  bucket.  Opening  a  door 
where  had  been  none,  he  brought  a  chair,  and  making  her  sit 
down,  began  to  blow  the  covered  fire  on  the  hearth,  where  he 
had  not  long  before  "boiled  his  kettle"  for  his  tea.  Then 
closing  the  door,  he  lighted  a  candle,  and  Mary  looking  about 
her  could  scarcely  believe  the  change  that  had  come  upon 
the  miserable  vacuity.      Joseph  sat  down  upon  his  anvil,  and 


428  MARY  MARSTOK 

begged  to  know  where  she  had  just  been,  and  how  far  she  had 
run  from  the  rascal.  When  he  had  learned  something  of  the 
peculiar  relations  in  which  Mary  stood  to  the  family  at  Durn- 
melling,  he  began  to  think  there  might  have  been  something 
more  in  the  pursuit  than  a  chance  ruffianly  assault,  and  the 
greater  were  his  regrets  that  he  had  not  secured  the  miscreant. 

"Anyhow,  miss,"  he  said,  "you'll  never  come  from  there 
alone  in  the  dark  again  ! " 

"I  understand  you,  Joseph,"  answered  Mary,  "for  I  know 
you  would  not  have  me  leave  doing  what  I  can  for  the  poor 
man  up  there,  because  of  a  little  danger  in  the  way." 

"No,  that  I  wouldn't,  miss.  That  would  be  as  much  as 
to  say  you  would  do  the  will  of  God  when  the  devil  would  let 
you.  What  I  mean  is,  that  here  am  I — your  slave,  or  servant, 
or  soldier,  or  whatever  you  may  please  to  call  me,  ready  at  your 
word." 

"  I  must  not  take  you  from  your  work,  you  know,  Joseph." 

"Work's  not  everything,  miss,"  he  answered;  "and  it's 
seldom  so  pressing  but  that — except  I  be  shoeing  a  horse — I 
can  leave  it  when  I  choose.  Any  time  you  want  to  go  any- 
where, don't  forget  as  you've  got  enemies  about,  and  just  send 
for  me.  You  won't  have  long  to  wait  till  I  come.  But  I  am 
main  sorry  the  rascal  didn't  have  something  to  keep  him  in 
mind  of  his  manners." 

Part  of  this  conversation,  and  a  good  deal  more,  passed  on 
their  way  to  Testbridge,  whither,  as  soon  as  Joseph  seemed  all 
right,  Mary,  who  had  forgotten  her  hunger  and  faintness,  in- 
sisted on  setting  out  at  once.  In  her  turn  she  questioned 
Joseph,  and  learned  that,  as  soon  as  he  knew  she  was  going  to 
settle  at  Testbridge,  he  started  off  to  find  if  possible  a  place  in 
the  neighborhood  humble  enough  to  be  within  his  reach,  and 
near  enough  for  the  hope  of  seeing  her  sometimes,  and  having 
what  help  she  might  please  to  give  him.  The  explanation 
afforded  Mary  more  pleasure  than  she  cared  to  show.  She  had 
a  real  friend  near  her — one  ready  to  help  her  on  her  own  ground 
— one  who  understood  her  because  he  understood  the  things 
she  loved  !  He  told  her  that  already  he  had  work  enough  to 
keep  him  going  ;  that  the  horses  he  once  shod  were  always 


TEE  NEXT  NIGET.  429 

brought  to  him  again  ;  that  he  was  at  no  expense  such  as  in  a 
town  ;  and  that  he  had  plenty  of  time  both  for  his  violin  and 
his  books. 

When  they  came  to  the  suburbs,  she  sent  him  home,  and 
went  straight  to  Mr.  Brett  with  Mr.  Eedmain's  message.  He 
undertook  to  be  at  Durnmelling  at  the  time  appointed,  and  to 
let  nothing  prevent  him  from  seeing  his  new  client. 


CHAPTEE  LIV. 

THE    NEXT    NIGHT. 

Mr.  Brett  found  no  difficulty  in  the  way  of  the  interview, 
for  Mr.  Redmain  had  given  Mewks  instructions  he  dared  not 
disobey :  his  master  had  often  ailed,  and  recovered  again,  and 
he  must  not  venture  too  far  !  As  soon  as  he  had  shown  the 
visitor  into  the  room,  he  was  dismissed,  but  not  before  he  had 
satisfied  himself  that  he  was  a  lawyer.  He  carried  the  news  at 
once  to  Sepia,  and  it  wrought  no  little  anxiety  in  the  house. 
There  was  a  will  already  in  existence,  and  no  ground  for  think- 
ing a  change  in  it  boded  anything  good.  Mr.  Mortimer  never 
deigned  to  share  his  thoughts,  anxieties,  or  hopes  with  any  of 
his  people ;  but  the  ladies  met  in  deep  consultation,  although 
of  course  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  The  only  operative 
result  was  that  it  let  Sepia  know  how,  though  for  reasons 
somewhat  different,  her  anxiety  was  shared  by  the  others  : 
unlike  theirs,  her  sole  desire  was — not  to  be  mentioned  in  the 
will  :  that  could  only  be  for  the  sake  of  leaving  her  a  substan- 
tial curse  !  Mr.  Eedmain's  utter  silence,  after,  as  she  well 
knew,  having  gathered  damning  facts  to  her  discredit,  had 
long  convinced  her  he  was  but  biding  his  time.  Certain  she 
was  he  would,  not  depart  this  life  without  leaving  his  opinion 
of.  her  and  the  proofs  of  its  justice  behind  him,  carrying 
weight  as  the  affidavit  of  a  dying  man.  Also  she  knew  Hesper 
well  enough  to  be  certain  that,  however  she  might  delight  in 
opposition  to  the  desire  of  her  husband,  she  would  for  the  sake 


430  MARY  MARSTON. 

of  no  one  carry  that  opposition  to  a  point  where  it  became  in- 
jurious to  her  interests.  Sepia's  one  thought  therefore  was  : 
could  not  something  be  done  to  prevent  the  making  of  another 
will,  or  the  leaving  of  any  fresh  document  behind  him  ?  What 
he  might  already  have  done,  she  could  nowise  help  ;  what  he 
might  yet  do,  it  would  be  well  to  prevent.  Once  more,  there- 
fore, she  impressed  upon  Mewks,  and  that  in  the  names  of 
Mrs.  Eedmain  and  Lady  Margaret,  as  well  as  in  her  own  per- 
son, the  absolute  necessity  of  learning  as  much  as  possible  of 
what  might  pass  between  his  master  and  the  lawyer. 

Mewks  was  driven  to  the  end  of  his  wits,  and  they  were  not 
a  few,  to  find  excuses  for  going  into  the  room,  and  for  delay- 
ing to  go  out  again,  while  with  all  his  ears  he  listened.  But 
both  client  and  lawyer  were  almost  too  careful  for  him ;  and 
he  had  learned  positively  nothing  when  the  latter  rose  to  de- 
part. He  instantly  left  the  room,  with  the  door  a  trifle  ajar, 
and  listening  intently,  heard  his  master  say  that  Mr.  Brett 
must  come  again  the  next  morning  ;  that  he  felt  better,  and 
would  think  over  the  suggestions  he  had  made  ;  and  that  he 
must  leave  the  memoranda  within  his  reach,  on  the  table  by 
his  bedside.  Ere  the  lawyer  issued,  Mewks  was  on  his  way 
with  all  this  to  his  tempter. 

Sepia  concluded  there  had  been  some  difference  of  opinion 
between  Mr.  Eedmain  and  his  adviser,  and  hoped  that  no- 
thing had  been  finally  settled.  Was  there  any  way  to  prevent 
the  lawyer  from  seeing  him  again  ?  Could  she  by  any  means 
get  a  peep  at  the  memoranda  mentioned  ?  She  dared  not  sug- 
gest the  thing  to  Hesper  or  Lady  Malice — of  all  people  they 
were  those  in  relation  to  whom  she  feared  their  possible  con- 
tents— and  she  dared  not  show  herself  in  Mr.  Eedmain's  room. 
Was  Mewks  to  be  trusted  to  the  point  of  such  danger  as  grew 
in  her  thought  ? 

The  day  wore  on.  Toward  evening  he  had  a  dreadful  at- 
tack. Any  other  man  would  have  sent  before  #now  for  what 
medical  assistance  the  town  could  afford  him,  but  Mr.  Eed- 
main hated  having  a  stranger  about  him,  and,  as  he  knew  how 
to  treat  himself,  it  was  only  when  very  ill  that  he  would  send 
for  his  own  doctor  to  the  country,  fearing  that  otherwise  he 


TEE  NEXT  NIGHT.  431 

might  give  him  up  as  a  patient,  such  visits,  however  well  re- 
munerated, being  seriously  inconvenient  to  a  man  with  a  large 
London  practice.  But  now  Lady  Margaret  took  upon  herself 
to  send  a  telegram. 

An  hour  before  her  usual  time  for  closing  the  shop,  Mary 
set  out  for  Durnmelling ;  and,  at  the  appointed  spot  on  the 
way,  found  her  squire  of  low  degree  in  waiting.  At  first  sight, 
however,  and  although  she  was  looking  out  for  him,  she  did 
not  certainly  recognize  him.  I  would  not  have  my  reader  im- 
agine Joseph  one  of  those  fools  who  delight  in  appearing  some- 
thing else  than  they  are  ;  but  while  every  workman  ought  to 
look  a  workman,  it  ought  not  to  be  by  looking  less  of  a  man, 
or  of  a  gentleman  in  the  true  sense  ;  and  Joseph,  having,  out 
of  respect  to  her  who  would  honor  him  with  her  company, 
dressed  himself  in  a  new  suit  of  unpretending  gray,  with  a 
wide-awake  hat,  looked  at  first  sight  more  like  a  country  gen- 
tleman having  a  stroll  over  his  farm,  than  a  man  whose  hands 
were  hard  with  the  labors  of  the  forge.  He  took  off  his  hat  as 
she  approached — if  not  with  ease,  yet  with  the  clumsy  grace 
peculiar  to  him ;  for,  unlike  many  whose  manners  are  unobjec- 
tionable, he  had  in  his  something  that  might  be  called  his  own. 
But  the  best  of  it  was,  that  he  knew  nothing  about  his  man- 
ners, beyond  the  desire  to  give  honor  where  honor  was  due. 

He  walked  with  her  to  the  door  of  the  house  ;  for  they  had 
agreed  that,  from  whatever  quarter  had  come  the  pursuit,  and 
whatever  might  have  been  its  object,  it  would  be  well  to  show 
that  she  was  attended.  They  had  also  arranged  at  what  hour, 
and  at  what  spot  close  at  hand,  he  was  to  be  waiting  to  accom- 
pany her  home.  But,  although  he  said  nothing  about  it,  Jo- 
seph was  determined  not  to  leave  the  place  until  she  rejoined 
him. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  he  left  her ;  and  when  he  had 
wandered  up  and  down  the  avenue  awhile,  it  seemed  dark 
enough  to  return  to  the  house,  and  reconnoiter  a  little. 

He  had  already  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  farmer  who 
occupied  a  portion  of  the  great  square,  behind  the  part  where 
the  family  lived :  he  had  had  several  of  his  horses  to  shoe,  and 
had  not  only  given  satisfaction  by  the  way  in  which  he  shod 


432  MARY  HAR8T0N. 

them,  but  had  interested  their  owner  with  descriptions  of  more 
than  one  rare  mode  of  shoeing  to  which  he  had  given  atten- 
tion ;  he  was,  therefore,  the  less  shy  of  being  discovered  about 
ihe  place. 

From  the  back  he  found  his  way  into  the  roofless  hall,  and 
there  paced  quietly  up  and  down,  measuring  the  floor,  and 
guessing  at  the  height  and  thickness  of  the  walls,  and  the  sort 
of  roof  they  had  borne.  He  noted  that  the  wall  of  the  house 
rose  higher  than  those  of  the  ruin  with  which  it  was  in  con- 
tact ;  and  that  there  was  a  window  in  it  just  over  one  of  those 
walls.  Thinking  whether  it  had  been  there  when  the  roof  was 
on,  he  saw  through  it  the  flickering  of  a  fire,  and  wondered 
whether  it  could  be  the  window  of  Mr.  Eedmain's  room. 

Mary,  having  resolved  not  to  give  any  notice  of  her  arrival, 
if  she  could  get  in  without  it,  and  finding  the  hall-door  on  the 
latch,  entered  quietly,  and  walked  straight  to  Mr.  Eedmain's 
bedroom.  When  she  opened  the  door  of  it,  Mewks  came  hur- 
riedly to  meet  her,  as  if  he  would  have  made  her  go  out  again, 
but  she  scarcely  looked  at  him,  and  advanced  to  the  bed.  Mr. 
Eedmain  was  just  waking  from  the  sleep  into  which  he  had 
fallen  after  a  severe  paroxysm. 

"  Ah,  there  you  are  !  "  he  said,  smiling  her  a  feeble  welcome. 
"  I  am  glad  you  are  come.  I  have  been  looking  out  for  you. 
I  am  very  ill.  If  it  comes  again  to-night,.  I  think  it  will  make 
an  end  of  me." 

She  sat  down  by  the  bedside.  He  lay  quite  still  for  some 
time,  breathing  like  one  very  weary.  Then  he  seemed  to  grow 
easier,  and  said,  with  much  gentleness  : 

"Can't  you  talk  to  me?" 

"Would  you  like  me  to  read  to  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  he  answered  ;  "I  can't  bear  the  light ;  it  makes  my 
head  furious." 

"  Shall  I  talk  to  you  about  my  father  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  don't  believe  in  fathers,"  he  replied.  "They're  always 
after  some  notion  of  their  own.  It's  not  their  children  they 
care  about." 

"That  maybe  true  of  some  fathers,"  answered  Mary ;  "but 
it  is  not  the  least  true  of  mine." 


THE  NEXT  NIGHT.  433 

"  Where  is  he  ?  Why  don't  you  bring  him  to  see  me,  if  he 
is  such  a  good  man  ?  He  might  be  able  to  do  something  for 
me." 

"  There  is  none  but  your  own  father  can  do  anything  for 
you,"  said  Mary.  "  My  father  is  gone  home  to  him,  but  if  he 
were  here,  he  would  only  tell  you  about  Mm." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Why  don't  you  talk  ? "  said  Mr.  Redmain,  crossly. 
"What's  the  good  of  sitting  there  saying  nothing  !  How  am 
I  to  forget  that  the  pain  will  be  here  again,  if  you  don't  say  a 
word  to  help  me  ?  " 

Mary  lifted  up  her  heart,  and  prayed  for  something  to  say 
to  the  sad  human  soul  that  had  never  known  the  Father.  But 
she  could  think  of  nothing  to  talk  about  except  the  death  of 
William  Marston.  So  she  began  with  the  dropping  of  her 
watch,  and,  telling  whatever  seemed  at  the  moment  fit  to  tell, 
ended  with  the  dream  she  had  the  night  of  his  funeral.  By 
that  time  the  hidden  fountain  was  floAving  in  her  soul,  and  she 
was  able  to  speak  straight  out  of  it. 

"I  can  not  tell  you,  sir,"  she  said,  closing  the  story  of  her 
dream,  "what  a  feeling  it  was  !  The  joy  of  it  was  beyond  all 
expression." 

"  You're  not  surely  going  to  offer  me  a  dream  in  proof  of 
anything  ! "  muttered  the  sick  man. 

"Yes,"  answered  Mary — "in  proof  of  what  it  can  prove. 
The  joy  of  a  child  over  a  new  toy,  or  a  colored  sweetmeat, 
shows  of  what  bliss  the  human  soul  is  made  capable." 

"Oh,  capable,  I  dare  say  ! " 

"And  more  than  that,"  Mary  went  on,  adding  instead  of 
replying,  "no  one  ever  felt  such  gladness  without  believing  in 
it.  There  must  be  somewhere  the  justification  of  such  glad- 
ness.    There  must  be  the  father  of  it  somewhere." 

"  Well !  I  don't  like  to  say,  after  your  kindness  in  coming 
here  to  take  care  of  me,  that  you  talk  the  worst  rubbish  I  ever 
heard  ;  but  just  tell  me  of  what  use  is  it  all  to  me,  in  the  state 
I  am  in  !  What  I  want  is  to  be  free  of  pain,  and  have  some 
pleasure  in  life — not  to  be  told  about  a  father." 

"  But  what  if  the  father  you  don't  want  is  determined  you 

19 


484  MART  MARSTOK 

shall  not  haye  what  you  do  want  ?  What  if  your  desire  is  not 
worth  keeping  you  alive  for  ?  And  what  if  he  is  ready  to  help 
your  smallest  effort  to  be  the  thing  he  wants  you  to  be — and  in 
the  end  to  give  you  your  heart's  desire  ?  " 

"It  sounds  very  fine,  but  it's  all  so  thin,  so  up  in  the 
clouds  \  It  don't  seem  to  have  a  leg  to  stand  upon.  Why,  if 
that  were  true,  everybody  would  be  good  !  there  would  be  none 
but  saints  in  the  world  !   What's  in  it,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"It  will  take  ages  to  know  what  is  in  it ;  but,  if  you  should 
die  now,  you  will  be  glad  to  find,  on  the  other  side,  that  you 
have  made  a  beginning.  For  my  part,  if  I  had  everything  my 
soul  could  desire,  except  God  with  me,  I  could  but  pray  that 
he  would  come  to  me,  or  not  let  me  live  a  moment  longer  ;  for 
it  would  be  but  the  life  of  a  devil." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  a  devil  ?  " 

"  A  power  that  lives  against  its  life,"  said  Mary. 

Mr.  Kedmain  answered  nothing.  He  did  not  perceive  an 
atom  of  sense  in  the  words.  They  gave  him  not  a  glimmer. 
Neither  will  they  to  many  of  my  readers  ;  while  not  a  few  will 
think  they  see  all  that  is  in  them,  and  see  nothing. 

He  was  silent  for  a  long  time — whether  he  waked  or  slept 
she  could  not  tell. 

The  annoyance  was  great  in  the  home  conclave  when  Mewks 
brought  the  next  piece  of  news — namely,  that  there  was  that 
designing  Marston  in  the  master's  room  again,  and  however 
she  got  into  the  house  he  was  sure  he  didn't  know. 

"  All  the  same  thing  over  again,  miss  ! — hard  at  it  a-tryin' 
to  convert  'im  ! — And  where's  the  use,  you  know,  miss  ?  If  a 
man  like  my  master's  to  be  converted  and  get  off,  I  don't  for 
my  part  see  where's  the  good  o'  keepin'  up  a  devil." 

"  I  am  quite  of  your  opinion,  Mewks,"  said  Sepia. 

But  in  her  heart  she  was  ill  at  ease. 

All  day  long  she  had  been  haunted  with  an  ever-recurring 
temptation,  which,  instead  of  dismissing  it,  she  kept  like  a  dog 
in  a  string.  Different  kinds  of  evil  affect  people  differently. 
Ten  thousand  will  do  a  dishonest  thing,  who  would  indignantly 
reject  the  dishonest  thing  favored  by  another  ten  thousand. 
They  are  not  sufficiently  used  to  its  ugly  face  not  to  dislike  it, 


THE  NEXT  NIGHT.  435 

though  it  may  not  be  quite  so  ugly  as  their  protege.  A  man 
will  feel  grandly  honest  against  the  dishonesties  of  another 
trade  than  his,  and  be  eager  to  justify  those  of  his  own.  Here 
was  Sepia,  who  did  not  care  the  dust  of  a  butterfly's  wing  for 
causing  any  amount  of  family  misery,  who  would  without  a 
pang  have  sacrificed  the  genuine  reputation  of  an  innocent  man 
to  save  her  own  false  one — shuddering  at  an  idea  as  yet  bodi- 
less in  her  brain — an  idea  which,  however,  she  did  not  dismiss, 
and  so  grew  able  to  endure  ! 

I  have  kept  this  woman — so  far  as  personal  acquaintance 
with  her  is  concerned — in  the  background  of  my  history.  For 
one  thing,  I  am  not  fond  of  post-mortem  examinations  ;  in 
other  words,  I  do  not  like  searching  the  decompositions  of 
moral  carrion.  Analysis  of  such  is,  like  the  use  of  reagents  on 
dirt,  at  least  unpleasant.  Nor  was  any  true  end  to  be  fur- 
thered by  a  more  vivid  presentation  of  her.  Nosology  is  a  sci- 
ence doomed,  thank  God,  to  perish  !  Health  alone  will  at  last 
fill  the  earth.  Or,  if  there  should  be  always  the  ailing  to  help, 
a  man  will  help  them  by  being  sound  himself,  not  by  knowing 
the  ins  and  outs  of  disease.     Diagnosis  is  not  therapy. 

Sepia  was  unnatural — as  every  one  is  unnatural  who  does 
not  set  his  face  in  the  direction  of  the  true  Nature  ;  but  she  had 
gone  further  in  the  opposite  direction  than  many  people  have 
yet  reached.  At  the  same  time,  whoever  has  not  faced  about 
is  on  the  way  to  a  capacity  for  worse  things  than  even  our  ene- 
mies would  believe  of  us. 

Her  very  existence  seemed  to  her  now  at  stake.  If  by  his 
dying  act  Mr.  Eedmain  should  drive  her  from  under  Hesper's 
roof,  what  was  to  become  of  her !  Durnmelling,  too,  would 
then  be  as  certainly  closed  against  her,  and  she  would  be  com- 
pelled to  take  a  situation,  and  teach  music,  which  she  hated, 
and  French  and  German,  which  gave  her  no  pleasure  apart 
from  certain  strata  of  their  literature,  to  insolent  girls  whom 
she  would  be  constantly  wishing  to  strangle,  or  stupid  little 
boys  who  would  bore  her  to  death.  Her  very  soul  sickened  at 
the  thought; — as  well  it  might ;  for  to  have  to  do  such  service 
with  such  a  heart  as  hers,  must  indeed  be  torment.  All  hope 
of  marrying  Godfrey  Wardour  would  be  gone,  of  course.     Did 


436  MART  MARSTOK 

he  but  remain  uncertain  as  to  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  a  third 
part  of  what  Mr.  Eedmain  would  record  against  her,  he  would 
never  meet  her  again  ! 

Since  the  commencement  of  this  last  attack  of  Mr.  Eed- 
main's  malady,  she  had  scarcely  slept ;  and  now  what  Mewks 
reported  rendered  her  nigh  crazy.  For  some  time  she  had 
been  generally  awake  half  the  night,  and  all  the  last  night  she 
had  been  wandering  here  and  there  about  the  house,  not  un- 
frequently  couched  where  she  could  hear  every  motion  in  Mr. 
Eedmain's  room.  Haunted  by  fear,  she  in  turn  haunted  her 
fear.  She  could  not  keep  from  staring  down  the  throat  of  the 
pit.  She  was  a  slave  of  the  morrow,  the  undefined,  awful 
morrow,  ever  about  to  bring  forth  no  one  knows  what.  That 
morrow  could  she  but  forestall  ! 

If  any  should  think  that  anxiety  and  watching  must  have 
so  wrought  on  Sepia  that  she  came  to  be  no  longer  accountable 
for  her  actions,  I  will  not  oppose  the  kind  conclusion.  For 
my  own  part,  until  I  shall  have  seen  a  man  absolutely  one 
with  the  source  of  his  being,  I  do  not  believe  I  shall  ever  have 
seen  a  man  absolutely  sane.  What  many  would  point  to  as 
plainest  proofs  of  sanity,  I  should  regard  as  surest  signs  of  the 
contrary. 

A  sign  of  my  own  insanity  is  it  ? 

Your  insanity  may  be  worse  than  mine,  for  you  are  aware 
of  none,  and  I  with  mine  do  battle.  I  believe  all  insanity  has 
moral  as  well  as  physical  roots.  But  enough  of  this.  There 
are  questions  we  can  afford  to  leave. 

Sepia  had  got  very  thin  during  these  trying  days.  Her 
great  eyes  were  larger  yet,  and  filled  with  a  troubled  anxiety. 
Not  paleness,  for  of  that  her  complexion  was  incapable,  but  a 
dull  pallor  possessed  her  cheek.  If  one  had  met  her  as  she 
roamed  the  house  that  night,  he  might  well  have  taken  her  for 
some  naughty  ancestor,  whose  troubled  conscience,  not  yet 
able  to  shake  off  the  madness  of  some  evil  deed,  made  her  wan- 
der still  about  the  place  where  she  had  committed  it. 

She  believed  in  no  supreme  power  who  cares  that  right 
should  be  done  in  his  worlds.  Here,  it  may  be,  some  of  my 
unbelieving  acquaintances,  foreseeing  a  lurid  something  on  the 


THE  NEXT  NIGHT.  437 

horizon  of  my  story,  will  be  indignant  that  the  capacity  for 
crime  should  be  thus  associated  with  the  denial  of  a  Live 
Good.  But  it  remains  a  mere  fact  that  it  is  easier  for  a  man 
to  commit  a  crime  when  he  does  not  fear  a  willed  retribution. 
Tell  me  there  is  no  merit  in  being  prevented  by  fear ;  I  an- 
swer, the  talk  is  not  of  merit.  As  the  world  is,  that  is,  as  the 
race  of  men  at  present  is,  it  is  just  as  well  that  the  man  who 
has  no  merit,  and  never  dreamed  of  any,  should  yet  be  a  little 
hindered  from  cutting  his  neighbor's  throat  at  his  evil  plea- 
sure.— No  ;  I  do  not  mean  hindered  by  a  lie — I  mean  hindered 
by  the  poorest  apprehension  of  the  grandest  truth. 

Of  those  who  do  not  believe,  some  have  never  had  a  noble 
picture  of  God  presented  to  them ;  but  whether  their  phan- 
tasm is  of  a  mean  God  because  they  refuse  him,  or  they  refuse 
him  because  their  phantasm  of  him  is  mean,  who  can  tell  ? 
Anyhow,  mean  notions  must  come  of  meanness,  and,  unchari- 
table as  it  may  appear,  I  can  not  but  think  there  is  a  moral 
root  to  all  chosen  unbelief.  But  let  God  himself  judge  his 
own. 

With  Sepia,  what  was  best  meant  what  was  best  for  her, 
and  best  for  her  meant  most  after  her  liking. 

She  had  in  her  time  heard  a  good  deal  about  euthanasia, 
and  had  taken  her  share  in  advocating  it.  I  do  not  assume 
this  to  be  anything  additional  against  her  ;  one  who  does  not 
believe  in  God,  may  in  such  an  advocacy  indulge  a  humanity 
pitiful  over  the  irremediable  ills  of  the  race  ;  and,  being  what 
she  was,  she  was  no  worse  necessarily  for  advocating  that  than 
for  advocating  cremation,  which  she  did — occasionally,  I  must 
confess,  a  little  coarsely.  But  the  notion  of  euthanasia  might 
well  work  for  evil  in  a  mind  that  had  not  a  thought  for  the 
ease  any  more  than  for  the  betterment  of  humanity,  or  indeed 
for  anything  but  its  own  consciousness  of  pleasure  or  comfort. 
Opinions,  like  drugs,  work  differently  on  different  constitu- 
tions. Hence  the  man  is  foolish  who  goes  scattering  vague 
notions  regardless  of  the  soil  on  which  they  may  fall. 

She  was  used  to  asking  the  question,  "What's  the  good  ? 
but  always  in  respect  of  something  she  wanted  out  of  her  way. 

"What's  the  good  of  an  hour  or  two  more  if  you're  not 


438  MARY  MARSTON. 

enjoying  it  ? "  she  said  to  herself  again  and  again  that  Mon- 
day. "What's  the  good  of  living  when  life  is  pain — or  fear 
of  death,  from  which  no  fear  can  save  you  ?  "  But  the  ques- 
tion had  no  reference  to  her  own  life  :  she  was  judging  for 
another — and  for  another  not  for  his  sake,  or  from  his  point 
of  view,  but  for  her  own  sake,  and  from  where  she  stood. 

All  the  day  she  wandered  about  the  house,  such  thoughts 
as  these  in  her  heart,  and  in  her  pocket  a  bottle  of  that  con- 
centrated which  Mr.  Kedmain  was  taking  much  diluted  for 
medicine.  But  she  hoped  not  to  have  to  use  it.  If  only  Mr. 
Kedmain  would  yield  the  conflict,  and  depart  without  another 
interview  with  the  lawyer  ! 

But  if  he  would  not,  and  two  drops  from  the  said  bottle, 
not  taken  by  herself,  but  by  another,  would  save  her,  all  her 
life  to  come,  from  endless  anxiety  and  grinding  care,  from 
weariness  and  disgust,  and  indeed  from  want ;  nor  that  alone, 
but  save  likewise  that  other  from  an  hour,  or  two  hours,  or 
perhaps  a  week,  or  possibly  two  weeks,  or — who  could  tell  ? — 
it  might  be  a  month  of  pain  and  moaning  and  weariness,  would 
it  not  be  well  ? — must  it  not  be  more  than  well  ? 

She  had  not  learned  to  fear  temptation ;  she  feared  poverty, 
dependence,  humiliation,  labor,  ennui,  misery.  The  thought 
of  the  life  that  must  follow  and  wrap  her  round  in  the  case  of 
the  dreaded  disclosure  was  unendurable ;, the  thought  of  the 
suggested  frustration  was  not  so  unendurable — was  not  abso- 
lutely unendurable — was  to  be  borne — might  be  permitted  to 
come — to  return — was  cogitated — now  with  imagined  resist- 
ance, now  with  reluctant  and  partial  acceptance,  now  with 
faint  resolve,  and  now  with  determined  resolution — now  with 
the  beaded  drops  pouring  from  the  forehead,  and  now  with  a 
cold,  scornful  smile  of  triumphant  foil  and  success. 

"Was  she  so  very  exceptionally  bad,  however  ?  You  who 
hate  your  brother  or  your  sister — you  do  not  think  yourself  at 
all  bad  !  But  you  are  a  murderer,  and  she  was  only  a  mur- 
derer. You  do  not  feel  wicked  ?  How  do  you  know  she  did  ? 
Besides,  you  hate,  and  she  did  not  hate  ;  she  only  wanted  to 
take  care  of  herself.  Lady  Macbeth  did  not  hate  Duncan  ;  she 
only  wanted  to  give  her  husband  his  crown.     You  only  hate 


THE  NEXT  NIGHT.  439 

your  brother  ;  you  would  not,  you  say,  do  him  any  harm  ;  and 
I  believe  you  would  not  do  him  mere  bodily  harm  ;  but,  were 
things  changed,  so  that  hate-action  became  absolutely  safe,  I 
should  have  no  confidence  what  you  might  not  come  to  do. 
No  one  can  tell  what  wreck  a  gust  of  passion  upon  a  sea  of  hate 
may  work.  There  are  men  a  man  might  well  kill,  if  he  were 
anything  less  than  ready  to  die  for  them.  The  difference  be- 
tween the  man  that  hates  and  the  man  that  kills  may  be  no- 
where but  in  the  courage.  These  are  grewsome  thinkings  :  let 
us  leave  them — but  hating  with  them. 

All  the  afternoon  Sepia  hovered  about  Mr.  Redmain's  door, 
down  upon  Mewks  every  moment  he  appeared.  Her  head 
ached  ;  she  could  hardly  breathe.  Rest  she  could  not.  Once 
when  Mewks,  coming  from  the  room,  told  her  his  master  was 
asleep,  she  crept  in,  and,  softly  approaching  the  head  of  the 
bed,  looked  at  him  from  behind,  then  stole  out  again. 

"  He  seems  dying,  Mewks,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  no,  miss  !    I've  often  seen  him  as  bad.     He's  better." 

"  "Who's  that  whispering  ?  "  murmured  the  patient,  angrily, 
though  half  asleep. 

Mewks  went  in,  and  answered  : 

"  Only  me  and  Jemima,  sir." 

"  Where's  Miss  Marston  ?  " 

"  She's  not  come  yet,  sir." 

"  I  want  to  go  to  sleep  again.  You  must  wake  me  the 
moment  she  comes." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Mewks  went  back  to  Sepia. 

"  His  voice  is  much  altered,"  she  said. 

"  He  most  always  speaks  like  that  now,  miss,  when  he 
wakes — very  different  from  I  used  to  know  him  !  He'd  always 
swear  bad  when  he  woke ;  but  Miss  Marston  do  seem  t'  'ave 
got  a  good  deal  of  that  out  of  him.  Anyhow,  this  last  two 
days  he's  scarce  swore  enough  to  make  it  feel  home-like. " 

"  It's  death  has  got  it  out  of  him,"  said  Sepia.  "  I  don't 
think  he  can  last  the  night  through.  Fetch  me  at  once  if — 
And  don't  let  that  Marston  into  the  room  again,  whatever  you 
do."   • 


440  MARY  MARSTON. 

She  spoke  with  the  utmost  emphasis,  plainly  clinching  in- 
structions previously  given,  then  went  slowly  up  the  stair  to 
her  own  room.  Surely  he  would  die  to-night,  and  she  would 
not  be  led  into  temptation  !  She  would  then  have  but  to  get 
a  hold  of  the  paper  !  What  a  hateful  and  unjust  thing  it  was 
that  her  life  should  be  in  the  power  of  that  man — a  miserable 
creature,  himself  hanging  between  life  and  death  ! — that  such 
as  he  should  be  able  to  determine  her  fate,  and  say  whether  she 
was  to  be  comfortable  or  miserable  all  the  rest  of  a  life  that  was 
to  outlast  his  so  many  years  !  It  was  absurd  to  talk  of  a  Provi- 
dence !     She  must  be  her  own  providence  ! 

She  stole  again  down  the  stair.  Her  cousin  was  in  her  own 
room  safe  with  a  novel,  and  there  was  Mewks  fast  asleep  in  an 
easy-chair  in  the  study,  with  the  doors  of  the  dressing-room 
and  chamber  ajar  !  She  crept  into  the  sick-room.  There  was 
the  tumbler  with  the  medicine  !  and  her  fingers  were  on  the 
vial  in  her  pocket.     The  dying  man  slept. 

She  drew  near  the  table  by  the  bed.  He  stirred  as  if  about 
to  awake.  Her  limbs,  her  brain  seemed  to  rebel  against  her 
will. — But  what  folly  it  was  !  the  man  was  not  for  this  world 
a  day  longer ;  what  could  it  matter  whether  he  left  it  a  few 
hours  earlier  or  later  ?  The  drops  on  his  brow  rose  from  the 
pit  of  his  agony  ;  every  breath  was  a  torture  ;  it  were  mercy  to 
help  him  across  the  verge  ;  if  to  more  life,  he  would  owe  her 
thanks  ;  if  to  endless  rest,  he  would  never  accuse  her. 

She  took  the  vial  from  her  pocket.  A  hand  was  on  the 
lock  of  the  door  !  She  turned  and  fled  through  the  dressing- 
room  and  study,  waking  Mewks  as  she  passed.  He,  hurrying 
into  the  chamber,  saw  Mary  already  entered. 

When  Sepia  learned  who  it  was  that  had  scared  her,  she  felt 
she  could  kill  her  with  less  compunction  than  Mr.  Kedmain. 
She  hated  her  far  worse. 

"You  must  get  the  viper  out  of  the  house,  Mewks,"  she 
said.     "It  is  all  your  fault  she  got  into  the  room." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  willing  enough,"  he  answered,  " — even  if  it 
wasn't  you  as  as't  me,  miss  !  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  She's 
that  brazen,  you  wouldn'  believe,  miss  !  It  wouldn'  be  be- 
comin'  to  tell  you  what  I  think  that  young  woman  fit  to  do." 


THE  NEXT  NIGHT.  441 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  responded  Sepia.  "But  surely/' she 
went  on,  "  the  next  time  he  has  an  attack,  and  he's  certain  to 
have  one  soon,  you  will  be  able  to  get  her  hustled  out ! " 

"No,  miss — least  of  all  just  then.  She'll  make  that  a  pre- 
tense for  not  going  a  yard  from  the  bed — as  if  me  that's  been 
about  him  so  many  years  didn't  know  what  ought  to  be  done 
with  him  in  his  paroxes  of  pain  better  than  the  likes  of  her  ! 
Of  all  things  I  do  loathe  a  row,  miss — and  the  talk  of  it  after  ; 
and  sure  I  am  that  without  a  row  we  don't  get  her  out  of  that 
room.  The  only  way  is  to  be  quiet,  and  seem  to  trust  her,  and 
watch  for  the  chance  of  her  going  out — then  shut  her  out,  and 
keep  her  out." 

"I  believe  you  are  right,"  returned  Sepia,  almost  with  a 
hope  that  no  such  opportunity  might  arrive,  but  at  the  same 
time  growing  more  determined  to  take  advantage  of  it  if  it 
should. 

Hence  partly  it  came  that  Mary  met  with  no  interruption 
to  her  watching  and  ministering.  Mewks  kept  coming  and 
going — watching  her,  and  waiting  his  opportunity.  Mr.  Eed- 
main  scarcely  heeded  him,  only  once  and  again  saying  in  sudden 
anger,  "  What  can  that  idiot  be  about  ?  He  might  know  by 
this  time  I'm  not  likely  to  want  him  so  long  as  you  are  in  the 
room  ! " 

And  said  Mary  to  herself  :  "  Who  knows  what  good  the  mere 
presence  of  one  who  trusts  may  be  to  him,  even  if  he  shouldn't 
seem  to  take  much  of  what  she  says  !  Perhaps  he  may  think  of 
some  of  it  after  he  is  dead — who  knows  ? "  Patiently  she  sat 
and  waited,  full  of  help  that  would  have  flowed  in  a  torrent, 
but  which  she  felt  only  trickle  from  her  heart  like  a  stream 
that  is  lost  on  the  face  of  the  rock  down  which  it  flows. 

All  at  once  she  bethought  herself,  and  looked  at  her  watch  : 
Joseph  had  been  waiting  for  her  more  than  an  hour,  and  would 
not,  she  knew,  if  he  stopped  all  night,  go  away  without  her  ! 
And  for  her,  she  could  not  forsake  the  poor  man  her  presence 
seemed  to  comfort !  He  was  now  lying  very  still :  she  would 
slip  out  and  send  Joseph  away,  and  be  back  before  the  patient 
or  any  one  else  should  miss  her  ! 

She  went  softly  from  the  room,  and  glided  down  the  stairs, 


442  MARY  MARSTON. 

and  out  of  the  house,  seeing  no  one — but  not  unseen :  hardly. 
was  she  from  the  room,  when  the  door  of  it  was  closed  and 
locked  behind  her,  and  hardly  from  the  house,  when  the  house- 
door  also  was  closed  and  locked  behind  her.  But  she  heard 
nothing,  and  ran,  without  the  least  foreboding  of  mishap,  to 
the  corner  where  Joseph  was  to  meet  her. 

There  he  was,  waiting  as  patiently  as  if  the  hour  had  not 
yet  come. 

"I  can't  leave  him,  Joseph.  My  heart  won't  let  me,"  she 
said.  "I  can  not  go  back  before  the  morning.  I  will  look  in 
upon  you  as  I  pass." 

So  saying,  and  without  giving  him  time  to  answer,  she 
bade  him  good  night,  and  ran  back  to  the  house,  hoping  to  get 
in  as  before  without  being  seen.  But  to  her  dismay  she  found 
the  door  already  fast,  and  concluded  the  hour  had  arrived 
when  the  house  was  shut  up  for  the  night.  She  rang  the  bell, 
but  there  was  no  answer — for  there  was  Mewks  himself  stand- 
ing close  behind  the  door,  grinning  like  his  master  an  evil  grin. 
As  she  knocked  and  rang  in  vain,  the  fact  flashed  upon  her 
that  she  was  intentionally  excluded.  She  turned  away,  over- 
whelmed with  a  momentary  despair.  What  was  she  to  do  ? 
There  stood  Joseph  !  She  ran  back  to  him,  and  told  him  they 
had  shut  her  out. 

"It  makes  me  miserable,"  she  went  on,  "to  think  of  the 
poor  man  calling  me,  and  me  nowhere  to  answer.  The  worst 
of  it  is,  I  seem  the  only  person  he  has  any  faith  in,  and  what  I 
have  been  telling  him  about  the  father  of  us  all,  whose  love 
never  changes,  will  seem  only  the  idler  tale,  when  he  finds  I  am 
gone,  and  nowhere  to  be  found — as  they're  sure  to  tell  him. 
There's  no  saying  what  lies  they  mayn't  tell  him  about  my  go- 
ing !  Rather  than  go,  I  will  sit  on  the  door-step  all  night,  just 
to  be  able  to  tell  him  in  the  morning  that  I  never  went  home." 

"Why  have  they  done  it,  do  you  think  ?"  asked  Joseph. 

"I  dare  hardly  allow  myself  to  conjecture,"  answered  Mary. 
"None  of  them  like  me  but  Jemima — not  even  Mrs.  Eedmain 
now,  I  am  afraid  ;  for  you  see  I  never  got  any  of  the  good  done 
her  I  wanted,  and,  till  something  of  that  was  done,  she  could 
not  know  how  I  felt  toward  her.     I  shouldn't  a  bit  wonder  if 


THE  NEXT  NIGHT.  443 

they  fancy  I  have  a  design  on  his  money — as  if  anybody  fit  to 
call  herself  a  woman  would  condescend  to  such  a  thing  !  But 
Avhen  a  woman  would  marry  for  money,  she  may  well  think  as 
badly  of  another  woman." 

"This  is  a  serious  affair,"  said  Joseph.  "To  have  a  dying 
man  believe  you  false  to  him  would  be  dreadful !  We  must 
find  some  way  in.     Let  us  go  to  the  kitchen-door." 

"  If  Jemima  happened  to  be  near,  then,  perhaps  ! "  rejoined 
Mary ;  "  but  if  they  want  to  keep  me  out,  you  may  be  sure 
Mewks  has  taken  care  of  one  door  as  well  as  another.  He  knows 
I'm  not  so  easy  to  keep  out." 

"  If  you  did  get  in,"  said  Joseph,  speaking  in  a  whisper  as 
they  went,  "would  you  feel  quite  safe  after  this  ?" 

"  I  have  no  fear.  I  dare  say  they  would  lock  me  up  some- 
where if  they  could,  before  I  got  to  Mr.  Redmain's  room  :  once 
in,  they  would  not  dare  touch  me." 

"  I  shall  not  go  out  of  hearing  so  long  as  you  are  in  that 
house,"  said  Joseph,  with  decision.  "Not  until  I  have  you  out 
again  do  I  leave  the  premises.  If  anything  should  make  you 
feel  uncomfortable,  you  cry  out,  miss,  and  I'll  make  a  noise  at  the 
door  that  everybody  at  Thornwick  over  there  shall  hear  me." 

"  It  is  a  large  house,  Joseph  :  one  might  call  in  many  a  part 
of  it,  and  never  be  heard  out  of  doors.  I  don't  think  you  could 
hear  me  from  Mr.  Redmain's  room,"  said  Mary,  with  a  little 
laugh,  for  she  was  amused  as  well  as  pleased  at  the  protection 
Joseph  would  give  her  ;  "  it  is  up  two  flights,  and  he  chose  it 
himself  for  the  sake  of  being  quiet  when  he  was  ill." 

As  she  spoke,  they  reached  the  door  they  sought — the  most 
likely  of  all  to  be  still  open  :  it  was  fast  and  dark  as  if  it  had 
not  been  unbolted  for  years.  One  or  two  more  entrances  they 
tried,  but  with  no  better  success. 

"Come  this  way,"  whispered  Joseph.  "I  know  a  place 
where  we  shall  at  least  be  out  of  their  sight,  and  where  we  can 
plan  at  our  leisure." 

He  led  her  to  the  back  entrance  to  the  old  hall.  Alas  !  even 
that  was  closed. 

"This  is  disappointing,"  he  said  ;  "for,  if  we  were  only  in 
there,  I  think  something  might  be  done." 


444  MARY  MARSTON. 

"I  believe  I  know  a  way/'  said  Mary,  and  led  him  to  a 
place  near,  used  for  a  wood-shed. 

At  the  top  of  a  great  heap  of  sticks  and  fagots  was  an  open- 
ing in  the  wall,  that  had  once  been  a  window,  or  perhaps  a 
door. 

"That,  I  know,  is  the  wall  of  the  tower,"  she  said  ;  "and 
there  can  be  no  difficulty  in  getting  through  there.  Once  in, 
it  will  be  easy  to  reach  the  hall — that  is,  if  the  door  of  the 
tower  is  not  locked." 

In  an  instant  Joseph  was  at  the  top  of  the  heap,  and 
through  the  opening,  hanging  on,  and  feeling  with  his  feet. 
He  found  footing  at  no  great  distance,  and  presently  Mary 
was  beside  him.  They  descended  softly,  and  found  the  door 
into  the  hall  wide  open. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  what  window  is  that,"  whispered  Joseph, 
"  just  above  the  top  of  the  wall  ?  " 

"I  can  not,"  answered  Mary.  "I  never  could  go  about 
this  house  as  .1  did  about  Mr.  Eedmain's ;  my  lady  always 
looked  so  fierce  if  she  saw  -  me  trying  to  understand  the  place. 
But  why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"You  see  the  flickering  of  a  fire  ?  Could  it  be  Mr.  Red- 
main's  room  ?  " 

"  I  can  not  tell.  I  do  not  think  it.  That  has  no  window 
in  this  direction,  so  far  as  I  know.  But  I  could  not  be  cer- 
tain." 

"  Think  how  the  stairs  turn  as  you  go  up,  and  how  the 
passages  go  to  the  room.  Think  in  what  direction  you  look 
every  corner  you  turn.  Then  you  will  know  better  whether  or 
not  it  might  be." 

Mary  was  silent,  and  thought.  In  her  mind  she  followed 
every  turn  she  had  to  take  from  the  moment  she  entered  the 
house  till  she  got  to  the  door  of  Mr.  Eedmain's  room,  and 
then  thought  how  the  windows  lay  when  she  entered  it.  Her 
conclusion  was  that  one  side  of  the  room  must  be  against  the 
hall,  but  she  could  remember  no  window  in  it. 

"But,"  she  added,  "I  never  was  in  that  room  when  I  was 
here  before,  and,  the  twice  I  have  now  been  in  it,  I  was  too 
much  occupied  to  take  much  notice  of  things  about  me.     Two 


TEE  NEXT  NIGET.  445 

windows,  I  know,  look  down  into  a  quiet  little  corner  of  the 
courtyard,  where  there  is  an  old  pump  covered  with  ivy.  I 
remember  no  other." 

"Is  there  any  way  of  getting  on  to  the  top  of  that  wall 
from  this  tower  ?  "  asked  Joseph. 

"  Certainly  there  is.  People  often  walk  round  the  top  of 
those  walls.     They  are  more  than  thick  enough  for  that." 

"Are  you  able  to  do  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  quite.  I  have  been  round  them  more  than  once. 
But  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  looking  in  at  a  window." 

"  No  more  do  I,  miss  ;  but  you  must  remember,  if  it  is  his 
room,  it  will  only  be  your  eyes  going  where  the  whole  of  you 
has  a  right  to  be  ;  and,  if  it  should  not  be  that  room,  they  have 
driven  you  to  it  :  such  a  necessity  will  justify  it." 

"You  must  be  right,"  answered  Mary,  and,  turning,  led 
the  way  up  the  stair  of  the  tower,  and  through  a  gap  in  the 
wall  out  upon  the  top  of  the  great  walls. 

It  was  a  sultry  night.  A  storm  was  brooding  between 
heaven  and  earth.  The  moon  was  not  yet  up,  and  it  was  so 
dark  that  they  had  to  feel  their  way  along  the  wall,  glad  of  the 
protection  of  a  fence  of  thick  ivy  on  the  outer  side.  Looking 
down  into  the  court  on  the  one  hand,  and  across  the  hall  to 
the  lawn  on  the  other,  they  saw  no  living  thing  in  the  light 
from  various  windows,  and  there  was  little  danger  of  being 
discovered.  In  the  gable  was  only  the  one  window  for  which 
they  were  making.  Mary  went  first,  as  better  knowing  the 
path,  also  as  having  the  better  right  to  look  in.  Through  the 
window,  as  she  went,  she  could  see  the  flicker,  but  not  the  fire. 
All  at  once  came  a  great  blaze.  It  lasted  Jrat  a  moment — 
long  enough,  however,  to  let  them  see  plainly  into  a  small 
closet,  the  door  of  which  was  partly  open. 

"  That  is  the  room,  I  do  believe,"  whispered  Mary.  "  There 
is  a  closet,  but  I  never  was  in  it." 

"If  only  the  window  be  not  bolted  !  "  returned  Joseph. 

The  same  instant  Mary  heard  the  voice  of  Mr.  Eedmain 
call  in  a  tone  of  annoyance — "  Mary  !  Mary  Marston  !  I  want 
you.     Who  is  that  in  the  room  ? — Damn  you  !  who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Let  me  pass  you,"  said  Joseph,  and,  making  her  hold  to 


446  MARY  MARSTOK 

the  ivy,  here  spread  on  to  the  gable,  he  got  between  Mary  and 
the  window.  The  blaze  was  gone,  and  the  fire  was  at  its  old 
flicker.  The  window  was  not  bolted.  He  lifted  the  sash.  A 
moment  and  he  was  in.     The  next,  Mary  was  beside  him. 

Something,  known  to  her  only  as  an  impulse,  induced 
Mary  to  go  softly  to  the  door  of  the  closet,  and  peep  into  the 
room.  She  saw  Hesper,  as  she  thought,  standing — sidewise  to 
the  closet — by  a  chest  of  drawers  invisible  from  the  bed.  A 
candle  stood  on  the  farther  side  of  her.  She  held  in  one  hand 
the  tumbler  from  which,  repeatedly  that  evening,  Mary  had 
given  the  patient  his  medicine  :  into  this  she  was  pouring, 
with  an  appearance  of  care,  something  from  a  small  dark 
bottle. 

With  a  sudden  suspicion  of  foul  play,  Mary  glided  swiftly 
into  the  room,  and  on  to  where  she  stood.  It  was  Sepia  !  She 
started  with  a  smothered  shriek,  turned  white,  and  almost 
dropped  the  bottle  ;  then,  seeing  who  it  was,  recovered  herself. 
But  such  a  look  as  she  cast  on  Mary !  such  a  fire  of  hate  as 
throbbed  out  of  those  great  black  eyes  !  Mary  thought  for  a 
moment  she  would  dart  at  her.  But  she  turned  away,  and 
walked  swiftly  to  the  door.  Joseph,  however,  peeping  in  be- 
hind Mary,  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  bottle  and  tumbler, 
also  of  Sepia's  face.  Seeing  her  now  retiring  with  the  bottle 
in  her  hand,  he  sprang  after  her,  and,  thanks  to  the  fact  that 
she  had  locked  the  door,  was  in  time  to  snatch  it  from  her. 
She  turned  like  a  wild  beast,  and  a  terrible  oath  came  hissing 
as  from  a  feline  throat.  When,  however,  she  saw,  not  Mary, 
but  the  unknown  figure  of  a  powerful  man,  she  turned  again  to 
the  door  and  fled.  Joseph  shut  and  locked  it,  and  went  back 
to  the  closet.     Mary  drew  near  the  bed. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ?"  asked  the  patient, 
querulously;  "and  who  was  that  went  out  of  the  room  just 
now  ?    What's  all  the  hurry  about  ?  " 

Anxious  he  should  be  neither  frightened  nor  annoyed,  Mary 
replied  to  the  first  part  of  his  question  only. 

"  I  had  to  go  and  tell  a  friend,  who  was  waiting  for  me, 
that  I  shouldn't  be  home  to-night.  But  here  I  am  now,  and  I 
will  not  leave  you  again." 


TEE  NEXT  NIOET.  447 

"  How  did  the  door  come  to  be  locked  ?  And  who  was  that 
went  out  of  the  room  ?  " 

"While  he  was  thus  questioning,  Joseph  crept  softly  out  of 
the  window ;  and  all  the  rest  of  the  night  he  lay  on  the  top  of 
the  wall  under  it. 

"It  was  Miss  Yolland,"  answered  Mary. 

"What  business  had  she  in  my  room  ?" 

"  She  shall  not  enter  it  again  while  I  am  here." 

"  Don't  let  Mewks  in  either,"  he  rejoined.  "I  heard  the 
door  unlock  and  lock  again  :  what  did  it  mean  ?  " 

"Wait  till  to-morrow.     Perhaps  we  shall  find  out  then." 

He  was  silent  a  little. 

"I  must  get  out  of  this  house,  Mary,"  he  sighed  at 
length. 

"When  the  doctor  comes,  we  shall  see,"  said  Mary. 

"What  !  is  the  doctor  coming  ?  I  am  glad  of  that.  Who 
sent  for  him  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  ;  I  only  heard  he  was  coming." 

"But  your  lawyer,  Mary — what's  his  name  ? — will  be  here 
first :  we'll  talk  the  thing  oyer  with  him,  and  take  his  advice. 
I  feel  better,  and  shall  go  to  sleep  again." 

All  night  long  Mary  sat  by  him  and  watched.  Not  a  step, 
so  far  as  she  knew,  came  near  the  door ;  certainly  not  a  hand 
was  laid  upon  the  lock.  Mr.  Eedmain  slept  soundly,  and  in 
the  morning  was  beyond  a  doubt  better. 

But  Mary  could  not  think  of  leaving  him  until  Mr.  Brett 
came.  At  Mr.  Bedmain's  request  she  rang  the  bell.  Mewks 
made  his  appearance,  with  the  face  of  a  ghost.  His  master  told 
him  to  bring  his  breakfast. 

"And  see,  Mewks,"  he  added,  in  a  tone  of  gentleness  that 
terrified  the  man,  so  unaccustomed  was  he  to  such  from  the 
mouth  of  his  master — "see  that  there  is  enough  for  Miss  Mars- 
ton  as  well.  She  has  had  nothing  all  night.  Don't  let  my 
lady  have  any  trouble  with  it. — Stop,"  he  cried,  as  Mewks  was 
going,  "  I  won't  have  you  touch  it  either  ;  I  am  fastidious  this 
morning.  Tell  the  young  woman  they  call  Jemima  to  come 
here  to  Miss  Marston." 

Mewks  slunk  away.     Jemima  came,  and  Mr.  Eedmain  or- 


448  MARY  MARSTOK 

dered  her  to  get  breakfast  for  himself  and  Mary.  It  was  done 
speedily,  and  Mary  remained  in  the  sickrchamber  until  the 
lawyer  arrived. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

DISAPPEARANCE. 

"I  AM  afraid  I  must  ask  you  to  leaye  us  now,  Miss  Mars- 
ton,"  said  Mr.  Brett,  seated  with  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  to  re- 
ceive his  new  client's  instructions. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Redmain  ;  "she  must  stay  where  she  is. 
I  fancy  something  happened  last  night  which  she  has  got  to 
tell  us  about." 

"Ah!  What  was  that?"  asked  Mr.  Brett,  facing  round 
on  her. 

Mary  began  her  story  with  the  incident  of  her  having  been 
pursued  by  some  one,  and  rescued  by  the  blacksmith,  whom 
she  told  her  listeners  she  had  known  in  London.  Then  she 
narrated  all  that  had  happened  the  night  before,  from  first  to 
last,  not  forgetting  the  flame  that  lighted  the  closet  as  they 
approached  the  window. 

"  Just  let  me  see  those  memoranda,"  said  Mr.  Brett  to 
Mr.  Redmain,  rising,  and  looking  for  the  paper  where  he  had 
left  it  the  day  before. 

"It  was  of  that  paper  I  was  this  moment  thinking,"  an- 
swered Mr.  Redmain. 

"  It  is  not  here  ! "  said  Mr.  Brett. 

"  I  thought  as  much  !  The  fool !  There  was  a  thousand 
pounds  there  for  her  !  I  didn't  want  to  drive  her  to  despair  : 
a  dying  man  must  mind  what  he  is  about.  Ring  the  bell  and 
see  what  Mewks  has  to  say  to  it." 

Mewks  came,  in  evident  anxiety. 

I  will  not  record  his  examination.  Mr.  Brett  took  it  for 
granted  he  had  deliberately  and  intentionally  shut  out  Mary, 
and  Mewks  did  not  attempt  to  deny  it,  protesting  he  believed 
she  was  boring  his  master.     The  grin  on  that  master's  face  at 


DISAPPEARANCE.  449 

hearing  this  was  not  very  pleasant  to  behold.  When  examined 
as  to  the  missing  paper,  he  swore  by  all  that  was  holy  he  knew 
nothing  about  it. 

Mr.  Brett  next  requested  the  presence  of  Miss  Yolland. 
She  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  The  place  was  searched  through- 
out, but  there  was  no  trace  of  her. 

When  the  doctor  arrived,  the  bottle  Joseph  had  taken  from 
her  was  examined,  and  its  contents  discovered. 

Lady  Malice  was  grievously  hurt  at  the  examination  she 
found  had  been  going  on. 

"  Have  I  not  nursed  you  like  my  own  brother,  Mr.  Bed- 
mam  ?  "  she  said. 

"You  may  be  glad  you  have  escaped  a  coroner's  inquest  in 
your  house,  Lady  Margaret ! "  said  Mr.  Brett. 

"For  me,"  said  Mr.  Bedmain,  "I  have  not  many  days  left 
me,  but  somehow  a  fellow  does  like  to  have  his  own  ! " 

Hesper  sought  Mary,  and  kissed  her  with  some  appearance 
of  gratitude.  She  saw  what  a  horrible  suspicion,  perhaps  even 
accusation,  she  had  saved  her  from.  The  behavior  and  disap- 
pearance of  Sepia  seemed  to  give  her  little  trouble. 

Mr.  Brett  got  enough  out  of  Mewks  to  show  the  necessity 
of  his  dismissal,  and  the  doctor  sent  from  London  a  man  fit  to 
take  his  place. 

Almost  every  evening,  until  he  left  Durnmelling,  Mary 
went  to  see  Mr.  Bedmain.  She  read  to  him,  and  tried  to 
teach  him,  as  one  might  an  unchildlike  child.  And  some- 
thing did  seem  to  be  getting  into,  or  waking  up  in,  him.  The 
man  had  never  before  in  the  least  submitted  ;  but  now  it 
looked  as  if  the  watching  spirit  of  life  were  feeling  through 
the  dust-heap  of  his  evil  judgments,  low  thoughts,  and  bad 
life,  to  find  the  thing  that  spirit  had  made,  lying  buried  some- 
where in  the  frightful  tumulus  :  when  the  two  met  and  joined, 
then  would  the  man  be  saved  ;  God  and  he  would  be  together. 
Sometimes  he  would  utter  the  strangest  things — such  as  if  all 
the  old  evil  modes  of  thinking  and  feeling  were  in  full  opera- 
tion again ;  and  sometimes  for  days  Mary  would  not  have  an ' 
idea  what  was  going  on  in  him.  When  suffering,  he  would 
occasionally  break  into  fierce  and  evil  language,  then  be  sud- 


450  MART  MARSTOK 

denly  silent.  God  and  Satan  were  striving  for  the  man,  and 
victory  would  be  with  him  with  whom  the  man  should  side. 

Eor  some  time  it  remained  doubtful  whether  this  attack  was 
not,  after  all,  going  to  be  the  last :  the  doctor  himself  was  doubt- 
ful, and,  having  no  reason  to  think  his  death  would  be  a  great 
grief  in  the  house,  did  not  hesitate  much  to  express  his  doubt. 
And,  indeed,  it  caused  no  gloom.  For  there  was  little  love  in 
the  attentions  the  Mortimers  paid  him ;  and  in  what  other 
hope  could  Hesper  have  married,  than  that  one  day  she  would 
be  free,  with  a  freedom  informed  with  power,  the  power  of 
money  !  But  to  the  mother's  suggestions  as  to  possible  changes 
in  the  future,  the  daughter  never  responded :  she  had  no 
thought  of  plans  in  common  with  her. 

Strange  rumors  came  abroad.  Godfrey  Wardour  heard 
something  of  them,  and  laughed  them  to  scorn.  There  was  a 
conspiracy  in  that  house  to  ruin  the  character  of  the  loveliest 
woman  in  creation  !  But  when  week  after  week  passed,  and  he 
heard  nothing  of  or  from  her,  he  became  anxious,  and  at  last 
lowered  his  pride  so  far  as  to  call  on  Mary,  under  the  pretense 
of  buying  something  in  the  shop. 

His  troubled  look  filled  her  with  sympathy,  but  she  could 
not  help  being  glad  afresh  that  he  had  escaped  the  snares  laid 
for  him.  He  looked  at  her  searchingly,  and  at  last  murmured 
a  request  that  she  would  allow  him  to  have  a  little  conversation 
with  her. 

She  led  the  way  to  her  parlor,  closed  the  door,  and  asked 
him  to  take  a  seat.  But  Godfrey  was  too  proud  or  too  agi- 
tated to  sit. 

"You  will  be  surprised  to  see  me  on  such  an  errand, 
Miss  Marston  ! "  he  said. 

"  I  do  not  yet  know  your  errand,"  replied  Mary  ;  "but  I 
may  not  be  so  much  surprised  as  you  think." 

"  Do  not  imagine,"  said  Godfrey,  stiffly,  "that  I  believe  a 
word  of  the  contemptible  reports  in  circulation.  I  come  only 
to  ask  you  to  tell  me  the  real  nature  of  the  accusations  brought 
against  Miss  Yolland  :  your  name  is,  of  course,  coupled  with 
them." 

"Mr.  Wardour,"  said  Mary,  "if  I  thought  you  would  be- 


DISAPPEARANCE.  451 

lieve  what  I  told  you,  I  would  willingly  do  as  you  ask  me.  As 
it  is,  allow  me  to  refer  you  to  Mr.  Brett,  the  lawyer,  whom  I 
dare  say  you  know." 

Happily,  the  character  of  Mr.  Brett  was  well  known  in  Test- 
bridge,  and  all  the  country  round ;  and  from  him  Godfrey 
Wardour  learned  what  sent  him,  traveling  on  the  Continent 
again — not  in  the  hope  of  finding  Sepia.  What  became  of  her, 
none  of  her  family  ever  learned. 

Some  time  after,  it  came  out  that  the  same  night  on  which 
the  presence  of  Joseph  rescued  Mary  from  her  pursuer,  a  man 
speaking  with  a  foreign  accent  went  to  one  of  the  surgeons 
in  Testbridge  to  have  his  shoulder  set,  which  he  said  had  been 
dislocated  by  a  fall.  When  Joseph  heard  it,  he  smiled,  and 
thought  he  knew  what  it  meant. 

Hesper  was  no  sooner  in  London,  than  she  wrote  to  Mary, 
inviting  her  to  go  and  visit  her.  But  Mary  answered  she  could 
no  more  leave  home,  and  must  content  herself  with  the  hope  of 
seeing  Mrs.  Bedmain  when  she  came  to  Durnmelling. 

So  long  as  her  husband  lived,  the  time  for  that  did  not 
again  arrive ;  but  when  Mary  went  to  London,  she  always 
called  on  her,  and  generally  saw  Mr.  Bedmain.  But  they 
never  had  any  more  talk  about  the  things  Mary  loved  most. 
That  he  continued  to  think  of  those  things,  she  had  one  ground 
of  hoping,  namely,  the  kindness  with  which  he  invariably  re- 
ceived her,  and  the  altogether  gentler  manner  he  wore  as  often 
and  as  long  as  she  saw  him.  Whether  the  change  was  caused 
by  something  better  than  physical  decay,  who  knows  save  him 
who  can  use  even  decay  for  redemption  ?  He  lived  two  years 
more,  and  died  rather  suddenly.  After  his  death,  and  that  of 
her  father,  which  followed  soon,  Hesper  went  again  to  Durn- 
melling, and  behaved  better  to  her  mother  than  before.  Mary 
sometimes  saw  her,  and  a  flicker  of  genuine  friendship  began 
to  appear  on  Hesper's  part. 

Mr.  Turnbull  was  soon  driving  what  he  called  a  roaring 
trade.  He  bought  and  sold  a  great  deal  more  than  Mary,  but 
she  had  business  sufficient  to  employ  her  days,  and  leave  her 
nights  free,  and  bring  her  and  Letty  enough  to  live  on  as  com- 
fortably as  they  desired — with  not  a  little  over,  to  use,  when 


452  MART  MARSTOK 

occasion  was,  for  others,  and  something  to  lay  by  for  the  time 
of  lengthening  shadows. 

Turnbnll  seemed  to  have  taken  a  lesson  from  his  late  nar- 
row escape,  for  he  gave  up  the  worst  of  his  speculations,  and 
confined  himself  to  "genuine  business-principles" — the  more 
contentedly  that,  all  Marston  folly  swept  from  his  path,  he 
was  free  to  his  own  interpretation  of  the  phrase.  He  grew  a 
rich  man,  and  died  happy — so  his  friends  said,  .and  said  as 
they  saw.  Mrs.  Turnbull  left  Testbridge,  and  went  to  live  in 
a  small  county-town  where  she  was  unknown.  There  she  was 
regarded  as  the  widow  of  an  officer  in  her  Majesty's  service, 
and,  as  there  was  no  one  within  a  couple  of  hundred  miles  to 
support  an  assertion  to  the  contrary,  she  did  not  think  it 
worth  her  while  to  make  one  :  was  not  the  supposed  brevet  a 
truer  index  to  her  consciousness  of  herself  than  the  actual 
ticket  by  ill  luck  attached  to  her — Widow  of  a  linen-draper  ? 

George  carried  on  the  business ;  and,  when  Mary  and  he 
happened  to  pass  in  the  street,  they  nodded  to  each  other. 

Letty  was  diligent  in  business,  but  it  never  got  into  her 
heart.  She  continued  to  be  much  liked,  and  in  the  shop  was 
delightful.  If  she  ever  had  another  offer  of  marriage,  the 
fact  remained  unknown.  She  lived  to  be  a  sweet,  gracious 
little  old  lady — and  often  forgot  that  she  was  a  widow,  but 
never  that  she  was  a  wife.  All  the  days  of  her  appointed  time 
she  waited  till  her  change  should  come,  and  she  should  find 
her  Tom  on  the  other  side,  looking  out  for  her,  as  he  had  said 
he  would.  Her  mother-in-law  could  not  help  dying  ;  but  she 
never  " forgave"  her — for  what,  nobody  knew. 

After  a  year  or  so,  Mrs.  Wardour  began  to  take  a  little  no- 
tice of  her  again  ;  but  she  never  asked  her  to  Thornwick  until 
she  found  herself  dying.  Perhaps  she  then  remembered  a  cer- 
tain petition  in  the  Lord's  prayer.  But  will  it  not  be  rather 
a  dreadful  thing  for  some  people  if  they  are  forgiven  as  they 
forgive  ? 

Old  Mr.  Duppa  died,  and  a  young  man  came  to  minister 
to  his  congregation  who  thought  the  baptism  of  the  spirit  of 
more  importance  than  the  most  correct  of  opinions  concerning 
even  the  baptizing  spirit.     From  him  Mary  found  she  could 


A    CATASTROPHE.  453 

learn,  and  would  be  much  to  blame  if  she  did  not  learn.  From 
him  Letty  also  heard  what  increased  her  desire  to  be  worth 
something  before  she  went  to  rejoin  Tom. 

Joseph  Jasper  became  once  more  Mary's  pupil.  She  was 
now  no  more  content  with  her  little  cottage  piano,  but  had 
an  instrument  of  quite  another  capacity  on  which  to  accom- 
pany the  yiolin  of  the  blacksmith. 

To  him  trade  came  in  steadily,  and  before  long  he  had  to 
build  a  larger  shoeing-shed.  From  a  wide  neighborhood  horses 
were  brought  him  to  be  shod,  cart-wheels  to  be  tired,  axles  to 
be  mended,  plowshares  to  be  sharpened,  and  all  sorts  of  odd 
jobs  to  be  done.  He  soon  found  it  necessary  to  make  arrange- 
ment with  a  carpenter  and  wheelwright  to  work  on  his  prem- 
ises. Before  two  years  were  over,  he  was  what  people  call  a 
flourishing  man,  and  laying  by  a  little  money. 

"  But,"  he  said  to  Mary,  "  I  can't  go  on  like  this,  you  know, 
miss.  I  don't  want  money.  It  must  be  meant  to  do  some- 
thing with,  and  I  must  find  out  what  that  something  is." 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

A     CATASTROPHE. 

One  winter  evening,  as  soon  as  his  work  was  over  for  the 
day,  Joseph  locked  the  door  of  his  smithy,  washed  himself  well, 
put  on  clean  clothes,  and,  taking  his  violin,  set  out  for  Test- 
bridge  :  Mary  was  expecting  him  to  tea.  It  was  the  afternoon 
of  a  holiday,  and  she  had  closed  early. 

Was  there  ever  a  happier  man  than  Joseph  that  night  as  he 
strode  along  the  footpath  ?  A  day  of  invigorating  and  manly 
toil  behind  him,  folded  up  in  the  sense  of  work  accomplished  ; 
a  clear  sky  overhead,  beginning  to  breed  stars  ;  the  pale  amber 
hope  of  to-morrow's  sunrise  low  down  in  the  west ;  a  frosty  air 
around  him,  challenging  to  the  surface  the  glow  of  the  forge 
which  his  day's  labor  had  stored  in  his  body ;  his  heart  and 
brain  at  rest  with  his  father  in  heaven  ;  his  precious  violin 


454  MARY  MARSTOK 

under  his  arm ;  before  him  the  welcoming  parlor,  where  two 
sweet  women  waited  his  coming,  one  of  them  the  brightest 
angel,  in  or  out  of  heaven,  to  him  ;  and  the  prospect  of  a  long 
evening  of  torrent-music  between  them — who,  I  repeat,  could 
have  been  more  blessed,  heart,  and  soul,  and  body,  than  Joseph 
Jasper  ?  His  being  was  like  an  all-sided  lens  concentrating  all 
joys  in  the  one  heart  of  his  consciousness.  God  only  knows 
how  blessed  he  could  make  us  if  we  would  but  let  him  !  He 
pressed  his  violin-case  to  his  heart,  as  if  it  were  a  living  thing 
that  could  know  that  he  loved  it. 

Before  he  reached  the  town,  the  stars  were  out,  and  the  last 
of  the  sunset  had  faded  away.  Earth  was  gone,  and  heaven 
was  all.  Joseph  was  now  a  reader,  and  read  geology  and  as- 
tronomy :  "I've  got  to  do  with  them  all !"  he  said  to  himself, 
looking  up.  "There  lie  the  fields  of  my  future,  when  this 
chain  of  gravity  is  unbound  from  my  feet !  Blessed  am  I  here 
now,  my  God,  and  blessed  shall  I  be  there  then." 

When  he  reached  the  suburbs,  the  light  of  homes  was  shin- 
ing through  curtains  of  all  colors.  "Every  nest  has  its  own 
birds,"  said  Joseph  ;  "every  heart  its  own  joys  !"  Just  then, 
he  was  in  no  mood  to  think  of  the  sorrows.  But  the  sorrows 
are  sickly  things  and  die,  while  the  joys  are  strong  divine  chil- 
dren, and  shall  live  for  evermore. 

When  he  reached  the  streets,  all  the  shops  he  passed  were 
closed,  except  the  beer-shops  and  the  chemists'.  "  The  nettle 
and  the  dock  !  "  said  Joseph. 

When  he  reached  Mary's  shop,  he  turned  into  the  court  to 
the  kitchen-door.  "Through  the  kitchen  to  the  parlor  ! "  he 
said.  "Through  the  smithy  to  the  presence-chamber!  0 
my  God — through  the  mud  of  me,  up  to  thy  righteousness  ! " 

He  was  in  a  mood  for  music — was  he  not  ?  One  might 
imagine  the  violin  under  his  arm  was  possessed  by  an  angel, 
and,  ignoring  his  ears,  was  playing  straight  into  his  heart ! 

Beenie  let  him  in,  and  took  him  up  to  the  parlor.  Mary 
came  half-way  to  meet  him.  The  pressure  as  of  heaven's  at- 
mosphere fell  around  him,  calming  and  elevating.  He  stepped 
across  the  floor,  still,  stately,  and  free.  He  laid  down  his  vio- 
lin, and  seated  himself  where  Mary  told  him,  in  her  father's 


A    CATASTROPHE.  455 

arm-chair  by  the  fire.  Gentle  nothings  with  a  down  of  rain- 
bows were  talked  until  tea  was  oyer,  and  then  without  a  word 
they  set  to  their  music — Mary  and  Joseph,  with  their  own 
hearts  and  Letty  for  their  audience. 

They  had  not  gone  far  on  the  way  to  fairyland,  however, 
when  Beenie  called  Letty  from  the  room,  to  speak  to  a  friend 
and  customer,  who  had  come  from  the  country  on  a  sudden 
necessity  for  something  from  the  shop.  Letty,  finding  herself 
not  quite  equal  to  the  emergency,  came  in  her  turn  to  call 
Mary  :  she  went  as  quietly  as  if  she  were  leaving  a  tiresome  vis- 
itor. The  music  was  broken,  and  Joseph  left  alone  with  the 
dumb  instruments. 

But  in  his  hands  solitude  and  a  violin  were  sure  to  marry 
in  music.  He  began  to  play,  forgot  himself  utterly,  and,  when 
the  customer  had  gone  away  satisfied,  and  the  ladies  returned 
to  the  parlor,  there  he  stood  with  his  eyes  closed,  playing  on, 
nor  knowing  they  were  beside  him.  They  sat  down,  and  lis- 
tened in  silence. 

Mary  had  not  listened  long  before  she  found  herself  strange- 
ly moved.  Her  heart  seemed  to  swell  up  into  her  throat,  and 
it  was  all  she  could  do  to  keep  from  weeping.  A  little  longer 
and  she  was  compelled  to  yield,  and  the  silent  tears  flowed 
freely.  Letty,  too,  was  overcome — more  than  ever  she  had 
been  by  music.  She  was  not  so  open  to  its  influences  as  Mary, 
but  her  eyes  were  full,  and  she  sat  thinking  of  her  Tom,  far 
in  the  regions  that  are  none  the  less  true  that  we  can  not  see 
them. 

A  mood  had  taken  shape  in  the  mind  of  the  blacksmith, 
and  wandered  from  its  home,  seeking  another  country.  It  is 
not  the  ghosts  of  evil  deeds  that  alone  take  shape,  and  go  forth 
to  wander  the  earth.  Let  but  a  mood  be  strong  enough,  and 
the  soul,  clothing  itself  in  that  mood  as  with  a  garment,  can 
walk  abroad  and  haunt  the  world.  Thus,  in  a  garment  of 
mood  whose  color  and  texture  was  music,  did  the  soul  of  Joseph 
Jasper  that  evening,  like  a  homeless  ghost,  come  knocking  at 
the  door  of  Mary  Marston.  It  was  the  very  being  of  the  man, 
praying  for  admittance,  even  as  little  Abel  might  have  crept 
up  to  the  gate  from  which  his  mother  had  been  driven,  and, 


456  MART  MARSTON. 

seeing  nothing  of  the  angel  with  the  flaming  sword,  knocked 
and  knocked,  entreating  to  be  let  in,  pleading  that  all  was  not 
right  with  the  world  in  which  he  found  himself.  And  there 
Mary  saw  Joseph  stand,  thinking  himself  alone  with  his  violin ; 
and  the  violin  was  his  mediator  with  her,  and  was  pleading  and 
pleading  for  the  admittance  of  its  master.  It  prayed,  it  wept, 
it  implored.  It  cried  aloud  that  eternity  was  very  long,  and 
like  a  great  palace  without  a  quiet  room.  "  Gorgeous  is  the 
glory,"  it  sang  ;  "  white  are  the  garments,  and  lovely  are  the 
faces  of  the  holy  ;  they  look  upon  me  gently  and  sweetly,  but 
pitifully,  for  they  know  that  I  am  alone — yet  not  alone,  for  I 
love.  Oh,  rather  a  thousand-fold  let  me  love  and  be  alone,  than 
be  content  and  joyous  with  them  all,  free  of  this  pang  which 
tells  me  of  a  bliss  yet  more  complete,  fulfilling  the  gladness  of 
heaven  ! "   .     * 

-All  the  time  Joseph  knew  nothing  of  where  his  soul  was  ; 
for  he  thought  Mary  was  in  the  shop,  and  beyond  the  hearing 
of  his  pleader.  Nor  was  this  exactly  the  shape  the  thing  took 
to  the  consciousness  of  the  musician.  He  seemed  to  himself 
to  be  standing  alone  in  a  starry  and  moonlit  night,  among 
roses,  and  sweet-peas,  and  apple-blossoms — for  the  soul  cares 
little  for  the  seasons,  and  will  make  its  own  month  out  of 
many.  On  the  bough  of  an  apple-tree,  in  the  fair  moonlight, 
sat  a  nightingale,  swaying  to  and  fro  like  one  mad  with  the 
wine  of  his  own  music,  singing  as  if  he  wanted  to  break  his 
heart  and  have  done,  for  the  delight  was  too  much  for  mortal 
creature  to  endure.  And  the  song  of  the  bird  grew  the  prayer 
of  a  man  in  the  brain  and  heart  of  the  musician,  and  thence 
burst,  through  the  open  fountain  of  the  violin,  an£  worked 
what  it  could  work,  in  the  world  of  forces.  "  I  love  thee  !  I 
love  thee  !  I  love  thee  ! "  cried  the  violin  ;  and  the  worship  was 
entreaty  that  knew  not  itself.  On  and  on  it  went,  ever  begin- 
ning ere  it  ended,  as  if  it  could  never  come  to  a  close  ;  and  the 
two  sat  listening  as  if  they  cared  but  to  hear,  and  would  listen 
for  ever — listening  as  if,  when  the  sound  ceased,  all  would  be 
at  an  end,  and  chaos  come  again. 

Ah,  do  not  blame,  thou  who  lovest  God,  and  fearest  the 
love  of  the  human  !    Hast  thou  yet  to  learn  that  the  love  of 


A    CATASTROPHE,  457 

the  human  is  love,  is  divine,  is  but  a  lower  form  of  a  part  of 
the  love  of  God  ?  When  thou  lovest  man,  or  woman,  or  child, 
yea,  or  even  dog,  aright,  then  wilt  thou  no  longer  need  that  I 
tell  thee  how  God  and  his  Christ  would  not  be  content  with 
each  other  alone  in  the  glories  even  of  the  eternal  original  love, 
because  they  could  create  more  love.  For  that  more  love,  to- 
gether they  suffered  and  patiently  waited.  He  that  loveth  not 
his  brother  whom  he  hath  seen,  how  shall  he  love  God  whom 
he  hath  not  seen  ? 

A  sob,  like  a  bird  new-born,  burst  from  Mary's  bosom.  It 
broke  the  enchantment  in  which  Joseph  was  bound.  That  en- 
chantment had  possessed  him,  usurping  as  it  were  the  throne 
of  his  life,  and  displacing  it ;  when  it  ceased,  he  was  not  his 
own  master.  He  started — to  conscious  confusion  only,  neither 
knowing  where  he  was  nor  what  he  did.  His  limbs  for  the  mo- 
ment were  hardly  his  own.  How  it  happened  he  never  could 
tell,  but  he  brought  down  his  violin  with  a  crash  against  the 
piano,  then  somehow  stumbled  and  all  but  fell.  In  the  act  of 
recovering  himself,  he  heard  the  neck  of  his  instrument  part 
from  the  body  with  a  tearing,  discordant  cry,  like  the  sound  of 
the  ruin  of  a  living  world.  He  stood  up,  understanding  now, 
holding  in  his  hand  his  dead  music,  and  regarding  it  with  a 
smile  sad  as  a  winter  sunset  gleaming  over  a  grave.  But  Mary 
darted  to  him,  threw  her  arms  round  him,  laid  her  head  on  his 
bosom,  and  burst  into  tears.  Tenderly  he  laid  his  broken  vio- 
lin on  the  piano,  and,  like  one  receiving  a  gift  straight  from 
the  hand  of  the  Godhead,  folded  his  arms  around  the  v/oman — 
enough,  if  music  itself  had  been  blotted  from  his  universe  ! 
His  violin  was  broken,  but  his  being  was  made  whole  !  his 
treasure  taken — type  of  his  self,  and  a  woman  given  him  in- 
stead ! 

"  It's  just  like  him  ! "  he  murmured. 

He  was  thinking  of  him  who,  when  a  man  was  brought  him 
to  be  delivered  from  a  poor  palsy,  forgave  him  his  sins. 


20 


458  MARY  MARSTON. 

CHAPTER  LVII. 

THE   EN"D    OF   THE   BEGINNING. 

Joseph  Jasper  and  Mary  Marston  were  married  the  next 
summer.  Mary  did  not  leave  her  shop,  nor  did  Joseph  leave 
his  forge.  Mary  was  proud  of  her  husband,  not  merely  because 
he  was  a  musician,  but  because  he  was  a  blacksmith.  For,  with 
the  true  taste  of  a  right  woman,  she  honored  the  manhood  that 
could  do  hard  work.  The  day  will  come,  and  may  I  do  some- 
thing to  help  it  hither,  when  the  youth  of  our  country  will 
recognize  that,  taken  in  itself,  it  is  a  more  manly,  and  there- 
fore in  the  old  true  sense  a  more  gentle  thing,  to  follow  a  good 
handicraft,  if  it  make  the  hands  black  as  a  coal,  than  to  spend 
the  day  in  keeping  books,  and  making  up  accounts,  though 
therein  the  hands  should  remain  white — or  red,  as  the  case 
may  be.  Not  but  that,  from  a  higher  point  of  view  still,  all 
work,  set  by  God,  and  done  divinely,  is  of  equal  honor ;  but, 
where  there  is  a  choice,  I  would  gladly  see  boy  of  mine  choose 
rather  to  be  a  blacksmith,  or  a  watchmaker,  or  a  bookbinder, 
than  a  clerk.  Production,  making,  is  a  higher  thing  in  the 
scale  of  reality,  than  any  mere  transmission,  such  as  buying 
and  selling.  It  is,  besides,  easier  to  do  honest  work  than  to  buy 
and  sell  honestly.  The  more  honor,  of  course,  to  those  who  are 
honest  under  the  greater  difficulty  !  But  the  man  who  knows 
how  needful  the  prayer,  "Lead  us  not  into  temptation,"  knows 
that  he  must  not  be  tempted  into  temptation  even  by  the  glory 
of  duty  under  difficulty.  In  humility  we  must  choose  the 
easiest,  as  we  must  hold  our  faces  unflinchingly  to  the  hard- 
est, even  to  the  seeming  impossible,  when  it  is  given  us  to  do. 

I  must  show  the  blacksmith  and  the  shopkeeper  once  more 
— two  years  after  marriage — time  long  enough  to  have  made 
common  people  as  common  to  each  other  as  the  weed  by  the 
roadside ;  but  these  are  not  common  to  each  other  yet,  and 
never  will  be.  They  will  never  complain  of  being  desillusion- 
nes,  for  they  have  never  been  illuded.  They  look  up  each  to 
the  Other  still,  because  they  were  right  in  looking  up  each  to 


THE  END   OF  THE  BEGINNING.  459 

the  other  from  the  first.     Each  was,  and  therefore  each  is  and 

will  be,  real. 

"  .  .  .  .  The  man  is  honest." 
"Therefore  he  will  he,  Timon." 

It  was  a  lovely  morning  in  summer.  The  sun  was  but  a 
little  way  above  the  horizon,  and  the  dew-drops  seemed  to  have 
come  scattering  from  him  as  he  shook  his  locks  when  he 
rose.  The  foolish  larks  were  up,  of  course,  for  they  fancied, 
come  what  might  of  winter  and  rough  weather,  the  universe 
founded  in  eternal  joy,  and  themselves  endowed  with  the  best 
of  all  rights  to  be  glad,  for  there  was  the  gladness  inside,  and 
struggling  to  get  outside  of  them.  And  out  it  was  coming  in 
a  divine  profusion  !  How  many  baskets  would  not  have  been 
wanted  to  gather  up  the  lordly  waste  of  those  scattered  songs  ! 
in  all  the  trees,  in  all  the  flowers,  in  every  grass-blade,  and 
every  weed,  the  sun  was  warming  and  coaxing  and  soothing 
life  into  higher  life.  And  in  those  two  on  the  path  through 
the  fields  from  Testbridge,  the  same  sun,  light  from  the  father 
of  lights,  was  nourishing  highest  life  of  all — that  for  the  sake 
of  which  the  Lord  came,  that  he  might  set  it  growing  in  hearts 
of  whose  existence  it  was  the  very  root. 

Joseph  and  Mary  were  taking  their  walk  together  before 
the  day's  work  should  begin.  Those  who  have  a  good  con- 
science, and  are  not  at  odds  with  their  work,  can  take  their 
pleasure  any  time — as  well  before  their  work  as  after  it.  Only 
where  the  work  of  the  day  is  a  burden  grievous  to  be  borne,  is 
there  cause  to  fear  being  unfitted  for  duty  by  antecedent  plea- 
sure. But  the  joy  of  the  sunrise  would  linger  about  Mary  all 
the  day  long  in  the  gloomy  shop  ;  and  for  Joseph,  he  had  but 
to  lift  his  head  to  see  the  sun  hastening  on  to  the  softer  and 
yet  more  hopeful  splendors  of  the  evening.  The  wife,  who 
had  not  to  begin  so  early,  was  walking  Avith  her  husband,  as 
was  her  custom,  even  when  the  weather  was  not  of  the  best,  to 
see  him  fairly  started  on  his  day's  work.  It  was  with  some- 
thing very  like  pride,  yet  surely  nothing  evil,  that  she  would 
watch  the  quick  blows  of  his  brawny  arm,  as  he  beat  the  cold 
iron  on  the  anvil  till  it  was  all  aglow  like  the  sun  that  lighted 
the  world — then  stuck  it  into  the  middle  of  his  coals,  and  blew 


460  MART  MARSTOK 

softly  with  his  bellows  till  the  flame  on  the  altar  of  his  work- 
offering  was  awake  and  keen.  The  sun  might  shine  or  forbear, 
the  wind  might  blow  or  be  still,  the  path  might  be  crisp  with 
frost  or  soft  with  mire,  but  the  lighting  of  her  husband's  forge- 
fire,  Mary,  without  some  forceful  reason,  never  omitted  to  turn 
by  her  presence  into  a  holy  ceremony.  It  was  to  her  the 
"  Come  let  us  worship  and  bow  down"  of  the  daily  service  of 
God-given  labor.  That  done,  she  would  kiss  him,  and  leave 
him  :  she  had  her  own  work  to  do.  Filled  with  prayer  she 
would  walk  steadily  back  the  well-known  way  to  the  shop; 
where,  all  day  long,  ministering  with  gracious  service  to  the 
wants  of  her  people,  she  would  know  the  evening  and  its  ser- 
vice drawing  nearer  and  nearer,  when  Joseph  would  come,  and 
the  delights  of  heaven  would  begin  afresh  at  home,  in  music, 
and  verse,  and  trustful  talk.  Every  day  was  a  life,  and  every 
evening  a  blessed  death — type  of  that  larger  evening  rounding 
our  day  with  larger  hope.  But  many  Christians  are  such  aw- 
ful pagans  that  they  will  hardly  believe  it  possible  a  young 
loving  pair  should  think  of  that  evening,  except  with  misery 
and  by  rare  compulsion  ! 

That  morning,  as  they  went,  they  talked — thus,  or  some- 
thing like  this  : 

",  0  Mary  ! "  said  Joseph,  "  hear  the  larks  !  They  are  all 
saying  :  '  Jo-seph  !  Jo-seph  !  Hearkentome,  Joseph  !  What-; 
wouldyouhavebeenbutforMa-ry,  Jo-seph  ? '  That's  what  they 
keep  on  singing,  singing  in  the  ears  of  my  heart,  Mary  !  " 

"  You  would  have  been  a  true  man,  Joseph,  whatever  the 
larks  may  say." 

' '  A  solitary  melody,  praising  without  an  upholding  har- 
mony, at  best,  Mary  ! " 

"  And  what  should  I  have  been,  Joseph  ?  An  inarticulate- 
harmony — sweetly  mumbling,  with  never  a  thread  of  soaring 
song  ! " 

A  pause  followed. 

"I  shall  be  rather  shy  of  your  father,  Mary,"  said  Joseph. 
"  Perhaps  he  won't  be  content  with  me." 

"  Even  if  you  weren't  what  you  are,  my  father  would  love 
you  because  I  love  you.     But  I  know  my  father  as  well  as  I 


THE  END   OF  THE  BEGINNING.  461 

know  you  ;  and  I  know  you  are  just  the  man  it  must  make  him 
happy  afresh,  even  in  heaven,  to  think  of  his  Mary  marrying. 
You  two  can  hardly  be  of  two  minds  in  anything  ! " 

"That  was  a  curious  speech  of  Letty's  yesterday  !  You 
heard  her  say,  did  you  not,  that,  if  everybody  was  to  be  so  very 
good  in  heaven,  she  was  afraid  it  would  be  rather  dull  ?  " 

"  "We  mustn't  make  too  much  of  what  Letty  says,  either 
when  she's  merry  or  when  she's  miserable.  She  speaks  both 
times  only  out  of  half-Avay  down." 

"  Yes,  yes  !  I  wasn't  meaning  to  find  any  fault  with  her  ;  I 
was  only  wishing  to  hear  what  you  would  say.  For  nobody 
can  make  a  story  without  somebody  wicked  enough  to  set  things 
wrong  in  it,  and  then  all  the  work  lies  in  setting  them  right 
again,  and,  as  soon  as  they  are  set  right,  then  the  story  stops." 

"There's  nothing  of  the  sort  in  music,  Joseph,  and  that 
makes  one  happy  enough." 

"  Yes,  there  is,  Mary.  There's  strife  and  difference  and 
compensation  and  atonement  and  reconciliation." 

"But  there's  nothing  wicked." 

"No,  that  there  is  not." 

"  "Well  !  "  said  Mary,  "perhaps  it  may  only  be  because  we 
know  so  little  about  good,  that  it  seems  to  us  not  enough.  We 
know  only  the  beginnings  and  the  fightings,  and  so  write  and 
talk  only  about  them.  For  my  part,  I  don't  feel  that  strife  of 
any  sort  is  necessary  to  make  me  enjoy  life  ;  of  all  things  it  is 
what  makes  me  miserable.  I  grant  you  that  effort  and  strug- 
gle add  immeasurably  to  the  enjoyment  of  life,  but  those  I  look 
upon  as  labor,  not  strife.  There  may  be  whole  worlds  for  us  to 
help  bring  into  order  and  obedience.  And  I  suspect  there  must 
be  no  end  of  work  in  which  is  strife  enough — and  that  of  a  kind 
hard  to  bear.  There  must  be  millions  of  spirits  in  prison  that 
want  preaching  to  ;  and  whoever  goes  among  them  will  have 
that  which  is  behind  of  the  afflictions  of  Christ  to  fill  up.  Any- 
how there  will  be  plenty  to  do,  and  that's  the  main  thing. 
Seeing  we  are  made  in  the  image  of  God,  and  he  is  always 
working,  we  could  not  be  happy  without  work." 

"Do  you  think  we  shall  get  into  any  company  we  like  up 
there  ?  "  said  Joseph . 


462  MARY  MARSTOK 

"  I  must  think  a  minute.  When  I  want  to  understand,  I 
find  myself  listening  for  what  my  father  would  say.  Yes,  I 
think  I  know  what  he  would  say  to  that :  '  Yes  ;  but  not  till 
you  are  fit  for  it ;  and  then  the  difficulty  would  be  to  keep  out 
of  it.  For  all  that  is  fit  must  come  to  pass  in  the  land  of  fit- 
nesses— that  is,  the  land  where  all  is  just  as  it  ought  to  be.' — 
That's  how  I  could  fancy  I  heard  my  father  answer  you." 

"With  that  answer  I  am  well  content,"  said  Joseph. — 
"  But  you  don't  want  to  die,  do  you,  Mary  ?  " 

* '  No  ;  I  want  to  live.  And  I've  got  such  a  blessed  plenty 
of  life  while  waiting  for  more,  that  I  am  quite  content  to  wait. 
But  I  do  wonder  that  some  people  I  know,  should  cling  to  what 
they  call  life  as  they  do.  It  is  not  that  they  are  comfortable, 
for  they  are  constantly  complaining  of  their  sufferings  ;  neither 
is  it  from  submission  to  the  will  of  God,  for  to  hear  them  talk 
you  must  think  they  imagine  themselves  hardly  dealt  with ; 
they  profess  to  believe  the  Gospel,  and  that  it  is  their  only  con- 
solation ;  and  yet  they  speak  of  death  as  the  one  paramount 
evil.  In  the  utmost  weariness,  they  yet  seem  incapable  of  un- 
derstanding the  apostle's  desire  to  depart  and  be  with  Christ, 
or  of  imagining  that  to  be  with  him  can  be  at  all  so  good  as 
remaining  where  they  are.  One  is  driven  to  ask  whether  they 
can  be  Christians  any  further  than  anxiety  to  secure  whatever 
the  profession  may  be  worth. to  them  will  make  them  such." 

"Don't  you  think,  though,"  said  Joseph,  "that  some  peo- 
ple have  a  trick  of  putting  on  their  clothes  wrong  side  out, 
and  so  -making  themselves  appear  less  respectable  than  they 
are  ?  There  was  my  sister  Ann  :  she  used  to  go  on  scolding  at 
people  for  not  believing,  all  the  time  she  said  they  could  not 
believe  till  God  made  them — if  she  had  said  except  God  made 
them,  I  should  have  been  with  her  there  ! — and  then  talking 
about  God  so,  that  I  don't  see  how,  even  if  they  could,  any 
one  would  have  believed  in  such  a  monster  as  she  made  of 
him  ;  and  then,  if  you  objected  to  believe  in  such  a  God,  she 
would  tell  you  it  was  all  from  the  depravity  of  your  own  heart 
you  could  not  believe  in  him ;  and  yet  this  sister  Ann  of 
mine,  I  know,  once  went  for  months  without  enough  to  eat — 
without  more  than  just  kept  body  and  soul  together,  that  she 


THE  END    OF  THE  BEGINNING.  463 

might  feed  the  children  of  a  neighbor,  of  whom  she  knew  next 
to  nothing,  when  their  father  lay  ill  of  a  fever,  and  could  not 
provide  for  them.  And  she  didn't  look  for  any  thanks  nei- 
ther, except  it  was  from  that  same  God  she  would  have  to  be 
a  tyrant  from  the  beginning — one  who  would  calmly  behold 
the  unspeakable  misery  of  creatures  whom  he  had  compelled  to 
exist,  whom  he  would  not  permit  to  cease,  and  for  whom  he 
would  do  a  good  deal,  but  not  all  that  he  could.  Such  people, 
I  think,  are  nearly  as  unfair  to  themselves  as  they  are  to  God." 

"You're  right,  Joseph,"  said  Mary.  "If  we  won't  take 
the  testimony  of  such  against  God,  neither  must  we  take  it 
against  themselves.  Only,  why  is  it  they  are  always  so  certain 
they  are  in  the  right  ?  " 

"  For  the  perfecting  of  the  saints,"  suggested  Joseph,  with 
a  curious  smile. 

"Perhaps,"  answered  Mary.  "Anyhow,  we  may  get  that 
good  out  of  them,  whether  they  be  here  for  the  purpose  or  not. 
I  remember  Mr.  Turnbull  once  accusing  my  father  of  irrev- 
erence, because  he  spoke  about  God  in  the  shop.  Said  my 
father,  '  Our  Lord  called  the  old  temple  his  father's  house  and 
a  den  of  thieves  in  the  same  breath.'  Mr.  Turnbull  saw  no- 
thing but  nonsense  in  the  answer.  Said  my  father  then,  '  You 
will  allow  that  God  is  everywhere  ? '  '  Of  course,'  replied  Mr. 
Turnbull,  '  Except  in  this  shop,  I  suppose  you  mean  ? '  said 
my  father.  'No,  I  don't.  That's  just  why  I  wouldn't  have 
you  do  it.'  'Then  you  wouldn't  have  me  think  about  him 
either?'  'Well!  there's  a  time  for  everything.'  Then  said 
my  father,  very  solemnly,  '  I  came  from  God,  and  I'm  going 
back  to  God,  and  I  won't  have  any  gaps  of  death  in  the  middle 
of  my  life.'     And  that  was  nothing  to  Mr.  Turnbull  either." 

To  one  in  ten  of  my  readers  it  may  be  something. 

Just  ere  they  came  in  sight  of  the  smithy,  they  saw  a  lady 
and  gentleman  on  horseback  flying  across  the  common. 

"There  go  Mrs.  Eedmain  and  Mr.  Wardour  ! "  said  Joseph. 
"  They're  to  be  married  next  month,  they  say.  Well,  it's  a 
handsome  couple  they'll  make  !  And  the  two  properties  to- 
gether'll  make  a  fine  estate  !  " 

"I  hope  she'll  learn  to  like  the  books  he  does,"  said  Mary. 


464  MARY  MARSTOK 

"I  never  could  get  her  to  listen  to  anything  for  more  than 
three  minutes." 

Though  Joseph  generally  dropped  work  long  before  Mary 
shut  the  shop,  she  yet  not  unfrequently  contrived  to  meet  him 
on  his  way  home  ;  and  Joseph  always  kept  looking  out  for  her 
as  he  walked. 

That  very  evening  they  were  gradually  nearing  each  other 
— the  one  from  the  smithy,  the  other  from  the  shop — with 
another  pair  between  them,  however,  going  toward  Testbridge 
— Godfrey  Wardour  and  Hesper  Eedmain. 

"How  strange,"  said  Hesper,  "that  after  all  its  chances 
and  breakings,  old  Thornwick  should  be  joined  up  again  at 
last  ! " 

Partly  by  a  death  in  the  family,  partly  through  the  securi- 
ties her  husband  had  taken  on  the  property,  partly  by  the  will 
of  her  father,  the  whole  of  Durnmelling  now  belonged  to 
Hesper. 

"It  is  strange,"  answered  Godfrey,  with  an  involuntary 
sigh. 

Hesper  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

It  was  not  merely  sadness  she  saw  on  his  face.  There  was 
something  there  almost  like  humility,  though  Hesper  was  not 
able  to  read  it  as  such.  He  lifted  his  head,  and  did  not  avoid 
her  gaze. 

"You  are  wondering,  Hesper,"  he  said,  "that  I  do  not  re- 
spond with  more  pleasure.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  come 
through  so  much  that  I  am  almost  afraid  to  expect  the  fruition 
of  any  good.  Please  do  not  imagine,  you  beautiful  creature  !  it 
is  of  the  property  I  am  thinking.  In  your  presence  that  would 
be  impossible.  Nor,  indeed,  have  I  begun  to  think  of  it.  .1 
shall,  one  day,  come  to  care  for  it,  I  do  not  doubt — that  is, 
when  once  I  have  you  safe  ;  but  I  keep  looking  for  the  next 
slip  that  is  to  come — between  my  lip  and  this  full  cup  of  hap- 
piness. I  have  told  you  all,  Hesper,  and  I  thank  you  that  you 
do  not  despise  me.  But  it  may  well  make  me  solemn  and  fear- 
ful, to  think,  after  all  the  waves  and  billows  that  have  gone 
over  me,  such  a  splendor  should  be  mine  ! — But,  do  you  really 
love  me,  Hesper — or  am  I  walking  in  my  sleep  ?    I  had  thought, 


THE  END   OF  TEE  BEGINNING.  465 

"'  Surely  now  at  last  I  shall  never  love  again  ! ' — and  instead  of 
that,  here  I  am  loving,  as  I  never  loved  before ! — and  doubt- 
ing whether  I  ever  did  love  before  !  " 

"I  never  loved  before,"  said  Hesper.  "Surely  to  love 
must  be  a  good  thing,  when  it  has  made  you  so  good  !  I  am 
a  poor  creature  beside  you,  Godfrey,  but  I  am  glad  to  think 
whatever  I  know  of  love  you  have  taught  me,  It  is  only  I  who 
have  to  be  ashamed  ! " 

"  That  is  all  your  goodness  ! "  interrupted  Godfrey.  "  Yet, 
at  this  moment,  I  can  not  quite  be  sorry  for  some  things  I 
ought  to  be  sorry  for  :  but  for  them  I  should  not  be  at  your 
side  now — happier  than  I  dare  allow  myself  to  feel.  I  dare 
hardly  think  of  those  things,  lest  I  should  be  glad  I  had  done 
wrong." 

"There  are  things  I  am  compelled  to  know  of  myself, 
Godfrey,  which  I  shall  never  speak  to  you  about,  for  even  to 
think  of  them  by  your  side  would  blast  all  my  joy.  How  plainly 
Mary  used  to  tell  me  what  I  was  !  I  scorned  her  words  !  It 
seemed,  then,  too  late  to  repent.  And  now  I  am  repenting ! 
I  little  thought  ever  to  give  in  like  this  !  But  of  one  thing  I 
am  sure — that,  if  I  had  known  you,  not  all  the  terrors  of  my 
father  would  have  made  me  marry  the  man. " 

Was  this  all  the  feeling  she  had  for  her  dead  husband  ? 
Although  Godfrey  could  hardly  at  the  moment  feel  regret  she 
had  not  loved  him,  it  yet  made  him  shiver  to  hear  her  speak  of 
him  thus.  In  the  perfected  grandeur  of  her  external  woman- 
hood, she  seemed  to  him  the  very  ideal  of  his  imagination, 
and  he  felt  at  moments  the  proudest  man  in  the  great  world  ; 
but  at  night  he  would  lie  in  torture,  brooding  over  the  horrors 
a  woman  such  as  she  must  have  encountered,  to  whom  those 
mysteries  of  our  nature,  Avhich  the  true  heart  clothes  in  abun- 
dant honor,  had  been  first  presented  in  the  distortions  of  a 
devilish  caricature.  There  had  been  a  time  in  Godfrey's  life 
when,  had  she  stood  before  him  in  all  her  splendor,  he  would 
have  turned  from  her,  because  of  her  history,  with  a  sad  dis- 
gust. Was  he  less  pure  now  ?  He  was  more  pure,  for  he  was 
humbler.  When  those  terrible  thoughts  would  come,  and  the 
darkness  about  him  grow  billowy  with  black  flame,  "  God  help 


466  MARY  MARSTOK 

me,"  lie  would  cry,  "to  make  the  buffeted  angel  forget  the 
past!" 

They  had  talked  of  Mary  more  than  once,  and  Godfrey,  in 
part  through  what  Hesper  told  him  of  her,  had  come  to  see 
that  he  was  unjust  to  her.  I  do  not  mean  he  had  come  to 
know  the  depth  and  extent  of  his  injustice- — that  would  imply 
a  full  understanding  of  Mary  herself,  which  was  yet  far  beyond 
him.  A  thousand  things  had  to  grow,  a  thousand  things  to 
shift  and  shake  themselves  together  in  Godfrey's  mind,  before 
he  could  begin  to  understand  one  who  cared  only  for  the  highest. 

Godfrey  and  Hesper  made  a  glorious  pair  to  look  at — but 
would  theirs  be  a  happy  union  ? — Happy,  I  dare  say — and  not 
too  happy.  He  who  sees  to  our  affairs  will  see  that  the  too  is 
not  in  them.  There  were  fine  elements  in  both,  and,  if  indeed 
they  loved,  and  now  I  think,  from  very  necessity  of  their  two 
hearts,  they  must  have  loved,  then  all  would,  by  degrees,  by 
slow  degrees,  most  likely,  come  right  with  them. 

If  they  had  been  born  again  both,  before  they  began,  so  to 
start  fresh,  then  like  two  children  hand  in  hand  they  might 
have  run  in  through  the  gates  into  the  city.  But  what  is  love, 
what  is  loss,  what  defilement  even,  what  are  pains,  and  hopes, 
and  disappointments,  what  sorrow,  and  death,  and  all  the  ills 
that  flesh  is  heir  to,  but  means  to  this  very  end,  to  this  waking 
of  the  soul  to  seek  the  home  of  our  being— the  life  eternal  ? 
Verily  we  must  be  born  from  above,  and  be  good  children,  or 
become,  even  to  our  self-loving  selves,  a  scorn,  a  hissing,  and 
an  endless  reproach. 

If  they  had  had  but  Mary  to  talk  to  them  !  But  they  did 
not  want  her  :  she  was  a  good  sort  of  creature,  who,  with  all 
her  disagreeableness,  meant  them  well,  and  whom  they  had 
misjudged  a  little  and  made  cry  !  They  had  no  suspicion  that 
she  was  one  of  the  lights  of  the  world — one  of  the  wells  of 
truth,  whose  springs  are  fed  by  the  rains  on  the  eternal  hills. 

Turning  a  clump  of  furze-bushes  on  the  common,  they  met 
Mary.  She  stepped  from  the  path.  Mr.  Wardour  took  off  his 
hat.  Then  Mary  knew  that  his  wrath  was  past,  and  she  was 
glad. 

They  stopped. 


THE  END   OF  THE  BEGINNING.  467 

"Well,  Mary,"  said  Hesper,  holding  out  her  hand,  and 
speaking  in  a  tone  from  which  both  haughtiness  and  conde- 
scension had  vanished,  "where  are  you  going  ?" 

"To  meet  my  husband,"  answered  Mary.  "I  see  him 
coining." 

With  a  deep,  loving  look  at  Hesper,  and  a  bow  and  a  smile 
to  Godfrey,  she  left  them,  and  hastened  to  meet  her  working- 
man. 

Behind  Godfrey  Wardour  and  Hesper  Eedmain  walked  Jo- 
seph Jasper  and  Mary  Marston,  a  procession  of  love  toward  a 
far-off,  eternal  goal.  But  which  of  them  was  to  be  first  in  the 
kingdom  of  heaven,  Mary  or  Joseph  or  Hesper  or  Godfrey,  is 
not  to  be  told  :  they  had  yet  a  long  way  to  walk,  and  there  are 
first  that  shall  be  last,  and  last  that  shall  be  first. 


THE   END. 


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